


The Labors of Sam

by lanri



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Gen, S3, Sam Winchester Big Bang 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-07 08:56:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanri/pseuds/lanri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Sam Winchester Big Bang: Sam was willing to do anything to break Dean’s deal. Even something like striking up a deal of his own with the Trickster. In Broward County, Sam agrees to do ten labors for the Trickster, becoming a metaphorical Hercules. If he completes them, he will save Dean, but if he fails . . . he loses everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Art by Amberdreams, check it out http://amberdreams.livejournal.com/289491.html  
> Done for the SamWinchesterBigBang 2015

Sam thought carefully about the choices he had. And made his decision. Sam said, “you’re pretty powerful, huh?” He forced himself to relax and lose his threatening posture.

The Trickster smirked. “No kidding. Haven’t you realized yet?”

“Powerful enough to keep my brother out of Hell,” Sam continued, “undo his deal completely.”

The laugh was mean and low. “Nice try. No cigar.”

Sam casually set down the stake, the one he had just stabbed the Trickster’s Bobby with. “Yeah? Why not?”

The Trickster bristled. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Of course you don’t. You’re powerful, like you said.” Sam paused, carefully structuring his next sentence. “You altered reality completely for the last six months, at least for me. Felt real, as far as I can tell.” Sam kept his gaze level. Calm. “For all I know, you could be the source of all the trickster myths . . . Unless, well, you’re just _one_ of the trickster gods.”

The god? demi-god? drew himself up proudly. “I am the true Trickster. None can compare to my power.”

Sam nodded agreeably. “It must have been nice. Getting all of that worship, back in the day.”

The Trickster’s eyes gleamed. “Blood sacrifices were the best,” he said. “You going somewhere with this?”

Sam took a small step forward. “You don’t get that kind of attention, anymore. Hey, maybe a couple professors talk about you to their class. Maybe some movies base a character off of your archetype. But no real devotion. I’m one person, but I could offer that. Completely and unreservedly. And all you would have to do is keep one person out of Hell. Unless that’s too hard for you?”

The Trickster scowled. “I invented reverse psychology, boy, don’t mess with me.”

“I’m not,” Sam reassured him. “All I want is my brother’s deal gone. You’re my last chance.”

“It would be more fun to watch him burn,” the Trickster dismissed. “Forget about it.”

“Would it really?” Sam took another step. “You watch people—annoying, stuck-up people—go to Hell all the time. You help them along. So, what difference does one innocent person make? Dean doesn’t really deserve that. And you may love to play tricks and see people fall in pride, but that’s not why Dean’s going to Hell, is it?”

He got an appraising look. “You didn’t go to school for pre-law for nothing, did you, Sam?”

Sam held back a shiver at the uncanniness of how much the Trickster really knew about him.

The Trickster was the one to step forward this time, and Sam refused to step back. “You really are serious, aren’t you? I mean, Dean is supposed to go down. That’s the way the cards are supposed to fall. You telling me you want to change that? Things could go badly, changing the future like that.”

Sam shrugged. “Are you telling me you’re scared to change destiny? You’re the Trickster. Destiny can be made by you.”

The god actually looked a little flattered. “So, what do I get out of this deal?”

“What do you want?” Sam asked cautiously.

The Trickster’s eyes glittered, and he stalked forward, slowly beginning to circle Sam. To keep himself from flinching, Sam made himself to remember the numerous Tuesdays spent watching his brother die. And so many more spent completely alone.

“You are right. I do miss having the complete devotion of the masses. Granted, they were rather misinformed masses, but it was entertaining, at least. You . . . oh, we can have fun with this.”

Sam had never felt more like a piece of meat as the Trickster looked him over. “I won’t kill anybody,” he told the Trickster haltingly. “That’s my one condition.”

“Ruin my fun.” The Trickster didn’t actually seem upset though, and he stopped in front of Sam, reaching out and tilting Sam’s face back and forth. “You know you remind me of someone.”

“Yeah?”

“Greek guy. Name of Heracles.”

“I’m not Greek,” Sam said dumbly.

The Trickster rolled his eyes. “I was about to compliment you and say you might be higher on the IQ scale than the guy, but maybe I was wrong. Ever hear of Heracles’s labors?”

“Hercules?” Sam checked.

The Trickster waved a hand. “Tomato, tom-ah-to. So, that’s what I want. Ten labors.”

Relief was making Sam’s legs weak. “So you’ll do it? You’ll stop Dean’s deal? He won’t go to Hell?”

“Unless he becomes a serial killer, I think you’re set,” the Trickster confirmed.

“And if I fail in the ten labors?”

“Dear old Dean goes to Hell.”

Sam swallowed. “What if I die in the course of the labors?”

The Trickster shrugged. “We can call that one a win. He’ll remain free if you kick it.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

A flash of anger twisted the Trickster’s face before it smoothed out. “Blood pact. Strongest magic there is. You do the ten labors, and I’ll keep your brother out of the pit.”

In a blur of movement, the Trickster slashed his own palm before handing a pearl-handled knife to Sam. Slowly, Sam did the same, taking the god’s outstretched hand in a strong grasp, feeling the sting of the cut and a strange surge of cold in his palm.

“I’ll be seeing you, Sam Winchester.”

Sam woke up. It was Wednesday for the second time.

And Dean was alive.


	2. Nemean Lion

“So, how about we clarify things a little?”

Sam started in surprise, looking around at his surroundings. “What? Where are we?”

“In your noggin. You’re asleep. Keep up.” The Trickster casually slid into the seat across from Sam—Jess was supposed to sit there and order her coffee, black, because the strong stuff was way better than that fancy sprinkles drink of yours and . . . somehow, over two years had not taken the pain away from that particular wound.

“So you want conditions?” Sam asked numbly. Palo Alto’s local cafe continued to bustle around the edges of his perception. He ignored it.

The Trickster smiled. “I would think you would want them, wouldn’t you? The labors must be completed on your own, no outside help. And Dean can’t know that we have a deal. Nor can anyone else. We have to keep this hush hush, comprende?”

Sam nodded obediently. “I'm ready.”

The Trickster’s grin was unsettling. “Oh, you may wish that you had asked for a break to prepare, boy. This will be interesting. And probably bloody.”

He snapped his fingers.

Sam opened his eyes, and he was in a forest. The grass was wet under his head, and it slowly began soaking through his hair. Not a dream. This was real. Sam ignored the jolt of terror at knowing Dean was alone; Dean was safe, he was in the motel asleep. Nothing would happen to him.

Except one time, when Sam had left early in the morning and made Dean stay at the motel, he had returned to find Dean sprawled across the floor, blood—

Sam shook his head.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked aloud.

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised at the lack of answer. Sam glanced down to find himself dressed in some kind of short robe thing that looked and smelled ancient.

He swore. “Really?”

Sighing, he rose, finding his shotgun and knife by his side. After finding Dean alive and booking it out of Florida, Sam actually hadn't had time to look up the myths of Hercules for himself. Chances were, this was some kind of large monster—Sam hoped it was the type that was easy to kill.

A low growl sounded from the copse of trees to Sam’s left. Sam dodged behind a larger tree himself, checking the shotgun’s ammo. Only one shot. The blade, he hefted in his right. He held the shotgun by its barrel to use as some kind of club in order to save the shot for when he needed it.

The trees around him were gnarled and thick—easy to climb. Sam clambered up, silently thankful that his brother wasn’t around to make fun of him in his outfit, since he probably looked like a fool.

The creature emerged from the tree across the clearing where Sam had woken up.

It was huge lion. Huge. Frickin’ huge. Sam’s mind, usually offering helpful synonyms at inopportune times, had been cowed into silence.

He was supposed to kill this thing with one shotgun blast? Sam scoured his brain trying to remember the Hercules myth. He knew that the Greek hero was always depicted with a lion skin in order to identify him—thank you, Jess’s art history class—but that was the extent of Sam’s knowledge.

The lion made a strange huffing noise, coming closer to Sam’s tree.

“That’s it, come on,” Sam murmured.

It stepped forward once more, large paw sinking into the dewy ground.

Sam jumped. His downward thrust took his knife straight into the back of the monster’s neck. The blade bent in his hands as the lion reared, sending Sam rolling off its back and onto the grass. The lion didn’t look like it was made of anything like metal or stone, so it had to be magic of some kind.

Sam swallowed as it turned to face him, lethal grace in its movements.

“Nice kitty,” he tried.

The growl was a relatively straightforward response. The giant cat pounced, and Sam rolled, feeling the air whistling through his hair as the paw came close to swiping at his head.

“Weak spot, weak spot,” Sam chanted.

The lion snarled again and Sam stared at its red—vulnerable—maw.

“Aw, man,” he muttered.

The lion leapt, and this time Sam stood his ground. Dropping his knife, he used both arms to swing the shotgun upwards, landing an uppercut on the lion’s jaw and barely avoiding its claws. As the lion shook off the blow and opened its mouth to bite, Sam swung the shotgun around, pointing the barrel straight down its throat.

He fired.

The bullet punched straight through the lion’s weak throat, killing it instantly.

Sam sagged back in relief, realizing too late that he was directly underneath the creature; it fell on top of him.

Sam grunted, shoving the carcass off.

A solitary clap sounded in the forest.

“I would give you a round of applause, but let’s be honest, that wasn’t half as impressive as Heracles strangling the Nemean lion.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sam said drily, “for disappointing.”

The Trickster grinned, himself also in a Greek or Roman looking outfit—Sam wasn’t exactly adept at telling them apart. “No worries, buddy, you passed. How ‘bout that? You get to go back to Dean, who is about to wake up.”

The Trickster raised his hand like he was about to snap his fingers again, and Sam called out “wait,” holding up his own hand.

The Trickster paused.

“The hunts. The ones I did during the time—“ Sam hesitated, “—the time Dean was dead. Are those still out there, since it reset?”

The Trickster shrugged. “I put you in an alternate dimension. Dean died, and you went hunting, so in this dimension, the hunts may be happening, may not. No way to really tell, though I would keep your eyes open for them. You were physically constant though, as a fun fact. So that means your birthday now falls on November 2nd, congratulations!”

The blood drained from Sam’s face, leaving him feeling dizzy. “November 2nd?”

The Trickster’s smile was more than a little cruel. “Happy trails, Sam. I’ll see you for the next labor.”

He snapped his fingers, and Sam was lying on his bed in their motel room, Dean sleeping on the bed next to him.

Only when he saw the bedspread rise and fall did Sam realize that the entire time fighting the lion, he had been also terrified that he might come back to find Dean dead again.

And so he lay in the dark room, and listened to Dean breathe until he was able to calm his racing heart.

“Sam?”

As Dean watched, his little brother flinched.

“Yes, Dean?” Sam’s haunted eyes focused on him.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Sam shifted on the diner’s bench seat. “What do you mean?”

Dean waved a hand in his direction. “You’re acting all weird ever since we left Florida. C’mon, ‘fess up.”

Sam’s laugh was a shadow of his old one. “You try being okay after seeing me die over a hundred times.”

Dean was the one to flinch now.

“Alright, well, what do you want to do?”

“Hunt.” Sam’s voice was dark with intent, and Dean resisted the urge to shudder.

“I can do that,” he said. They both were silent as the waitress set down their plates; normally Dean would have flirted, but things felt a little too unnatural for that to fly right now.

Sam was looking down at his food like he didn’t know how to eat anymore.

“I’m not hungry,” Sam blurted out, and then he darted out of the diner like a hellhound was on his heels.

“Great talk we just had. Nice,” Dean said to the empty diner. He ate slowly, trying to enjoy his meal—after all, it wasn’t like he had many left.

With that thought, Dean lost his appetite as well.

He caught up to Sam walking down the row of motel rooms.

“Dude, wanna do anything else in town before we head out?”

Sam’s reaction was violent and excessive, as Sam whirled, going into a defensive stance.

“Sam?” Dean asked, a little warily.

Sam passed a hand over his face, shielding his eyes from Dean’s view. “Right. Sorry. Um, no, we should head out soon. Next place we go I need a library. And wi-fi.”

“Sure, princess,” Dean joked as usual, but watched Sam go into the room to gather their stuff with worry gnawing at him. How could Sam be so inherently different? Dean got it—he really did. Seeing a brother die was traumatic in a way that no torture could surpass. But the way Sam moved was now with intent, and a speed that made Dean stretch his legs a little to catch up. And Sam fluctuated between staring at Dean for hours like he hadn’t seen him for years, and acting like Dean didn’t exist unless he was talking all the time.

Dean scowled, kicking at the dirt before quickly hiding his feelings behind a bland smile as Sam emerged.

“All set?”

Sam’s eyes were almost desperate in the way they scanned Dean—like he might have died in the short minutes Sam was in the room. Dean’s stomach turned at the thought.

“All set, Dean,” Sam said softly.

Dean let him walk first to the Impala, noting how Sam started towards the driver’s side before stopping and heading to the passenger’s.

Sam may have stopped wearing his heart on his sleeve, but Dean was determined to figure him out, no matter what the cost.


	3. Lernean Hydra

“You going out?”

Sam hesitated by the door. “I dunno. I thought about breaking into the library.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Or maybe we could take care of the mutant snake tonight.”

“No, we shouldn’t. We should wait until daylight,” Sam quickly refuted. “I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

He exited, shutting the door behind him with a sharply exhaled breath. There was sometimes nothing worse than lying to Dean.

“Hey, handsome. Care to buy me a drink?”

Sam leveled his gaze at Ruby. “No. Leave.”

Ruby sneered. “Funny, Sam. I would think you would love to save your brother. Guess not,” she taunted.

Up until this point, Sam had found it easy to believe in Ruby’s attempts to seduce him with the hope of saving Dean. He pulled out his gun. “Get out of here, before I blow your head off.”

“Whoa, cowboy.” Ruby raised both her hands. Her eyes became more calculating, and she cocked her head. “What happened to you, Sam? A couple weeks, and you don’t want to listen to me, after everything I’ve done to help you?”

“Your help is no longer required,” Sam said. “Get out of my way.”

He strode out into the night, stopping briefly at the Impala to pick up his machete.

“You’re a fool, Sam Winchester!” Ruby called from behind him.

Sam ignored her, off to his next labor. The Trickster had pointed out the hunt, and unfortunately, as Sam had researched it the next day, Dean had noticed and invited himself along. This would be Sam’s one chance to take care of it himself.

Sam didn’t really want to fight a giant snake (thankfully without the actual powers of a hydra’s regrowing heads, as in the myth) in the middle of the night, but he had no choice.

Sam found the maintenance entrance to the sewers and jimmied the lock. Ever since the shapeshifter case, Sam had hated sewers. Not that he had loved them before, but the smell just reminded him of being tied up, useless, not knowing if the shapeshifter would kill Dean or not.

His footsteps were loud in the splashing water as he crab-walked along the wall. That was part of being live bait, he supposed, making himself vulnerable.

A faint noise came from ahead, down the dark tunnel. Sam clutched his flashlight a little tighter, machete in the other.

“Here, snakey snakey,” he muttered. A hissing sound told him he was on the right track. Sam raised his machete a little higher in preparation, as—

A light shone past him, from behind. Sam twisted, shining his own light back.

“Sam, you idiot! What are you doing down here alone?”

“Dean?” Sam wanted to scream in panic. How had he known where Sam was?

“Sam, look out!” A shotgun blast went off, and Sam heard a strange hissing shriek, even as he turned.

One long fang sank into Sam’s flank as the snake attempted to clamp down. Sam’s attempt to dodge had helped him, but only a little bit.

“Sam!” Dean’s roar was oddly familiar, and Sam felt a strange déjà vu to falling down in a muddy street.

The snake let go of Sam to go after Dean, and Sam, gritting his teeth, swung his machete.

The first blow only managed to reach the spine. The second went all the way through. Dazed, Sam watched as the enormous body fell, splashing sickeningly into the sewer water.

“Sam, you . . . you’re hurt, let’s get you back to the motel, huh?”

Sam nodded a little vaguely, still coming down from the adrenaline rush of seeing Dean in danger.

He was guided around the body, through the sludge that made up sewer water.

“You are such a moron.”

“No, you are,” Sam muttered. The sewer seemed like it was moving backwards, strangely enough.

“Hey hey hey, easy. Sam, c’mon, keep walking.”

“Shouldn’ be here,” he slurred. Dean, for some reason, ignored him, and Sam didn’t resist as he was shoved up the ladder. At the top, he stayed on his hands and knees. Just for a moment. To catch his breath.

“Darn it, Sam.”

Arms were tugging at him, and Sam grunted, trying to avoid them. He wanted to sleep.

“Stay awake! Sam!”

Everything was dark, and Sam blinked at the Trickster, strangely illuminated in front of him.

“You messed up this labor royally, Sam the man. No help, remember?”

“I killed it,” Sam protested weakly. “Dean didn’t help.”

“Dean got it with the shotgun first. Doesn’t count. But if you do die from the poison, consider the deal made, and Dean will be saved. ‘Cause I’m nice like that.”

“Poison?” Sam asked, but the Trickster had disappeared, and Sam fell into a dizzying spiral, his tongue thick and unwieldy. “Dean?”

He thought he heard a response, but far too soon it disappeared.

Dean kept up a steady stream of curses as he wrangled Sam’s lanky body into the room. It wasn’t the first or the last time he’d had to carry his brother, but it somehow felt more dramatic, more meaningful after the strange time in Florida.

Sam was flushed, running hot with whatever poison the snake had pumped into him. That made it easier for Dean to tell himself that the way Sam fell down onto bed was not the the limpness of the dead.

“Alright, alright, we’re gonna figure this out.” Dean hurriedly stripped Sam’s shirts off . . .

And for a moment, stopped, a wave of cold washing over him.

When was the last time he had seen Sam without a shirt? Seen the burn marks, the bruises, and . . . was that a bullet wound?

Sam shifted, making a slight whimpering sound. No time for contemplation now.

With one hand, Dean pressed a compress to Sam’s wounded shoulder. He was too late to try sucking out the venom or whatever the proper method was, but he still could hope for an antidote. With his other hand, he pulled out his cell phone.

“Ruby,” he spat into the phone. “C’mon, you said you would help. So friggin’ help!”

“My spider sense is tingling.” Ruby was standing by the open doorway and sighed. “Care to break the salt line, idiot?”

Dean grit his teeth, but obeyed.

Ruby strode over to Sam’s side, and Dean had to bite his lip to keep from yelling at her to get away from his brother. “You have a fang?”

Dean handed it over quickly.

“Give me twenty minutes.” Ruby strode out the door again, ignoring the threats Dean shouted after her. Dean blew out his breath helplessly, turning back to Sam, who had started to twist in the sheets, skin glistening with sweat.

“Dean,” he mumbled. “Burning.”

“Hey, Sam. We’ll be fine. Promise.”

Sam’s temperature soared; his heartbeat beating like a hummingbird’s wings. By the time Ruby returned, Dean was close to panicking.

“This should do it,” she said tersely, tipping a cup against Sam’s mouth.

The solution looked vile, but Dean didn’t care. As long as it saved Sam.

For several tense moments, there was no change, but then Sam coughed, sending a little of the brown fluid spewing before settling down, his breathing and heartbeat slowing.

“Easy, Sam, easy,” Dean urged. He spared a glance for Ruby. “Thanks. Also for telling me about Sam going to the hunt by himself.”

Her face was unreadable. “No problem. Call me if you need me again.” She paused, taking one step towards Dean. “I'm not sure what’s going on with Sam.”

“Me neither,” Dean replied, and it felt like a confession.


	4. Cerynian Hind

Sam fought the urge to shift in the Impala’s passenger seat like a guilty child. Ever since the fight with the hydra, Dean had been mostly ignoring Sam, choosing instead to convey any directions with grunts or nods.

It made traveling unbearable.

“We don’t have a hunt,” Sam said quietly.

Dean shrugged.

“Do you want to visit Bobby?”

Dean shook his head.

Sam swallowed before biting the bullet. “What’s wrong?”

Dean’s laugh was rough. “Oh, that’s great, Sam. What’s wrong? Like you don’t know.”

Sam couldn’t help shifting on the leather. “Okay, look, I know I shouldn’t have gone after the snake myself. It was stupid, but I didn’t want to see you hurt.”

Finally, Dean stared him in the eye. “See me hurt? Like we haven’t been hunting our entire lives?”

Sam cringed back. “I couldn’t watch you die again,” he said. It was the right thing to say, because Dean’s gaze softened before turning back to the road.

“Don’t do it again,” he said gruffly.

“Okay,” Sam agreed.

“So you wanna tell me about the scars?”

Sam blinked. “What scars?”

Dean’s eyes hardened again. “Don’t lie to me, Sam. I saw them. Burns on your upper shoulder. A couple scars on your arms. A bullet wound in your side.”

Sam thought frantically. “They happened during those Tuesdays. The Trickster. I was on a different . . . um, different plane of existence? I think I stayed the same, while everything reset.”

Dean was silent for a moment. “How did they happen?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam avoided.

Dean nodded tightly and turned up the music. Sam turned to the window, feeling his eyes grow heavy as the scenery flashed by.

“Well. That was terrible.”

Sam jumped away from the Trickster, gasping in shock. “What? What do you mean? The last task?”

The Trickster’s normally lighthearted demeanor was gone. “You screwed up, Sammy. That one doesn’t count towards the ten. How ‘bout we try this again, huh?”

“But I did—“

The Trickster raised a hand, stopping Sam from saying anything. “Don’t make me angry. Let’s move on, shall we?”

“Got it,” Sam said quickly.

“Let’s see if you can manage to fumble this one. Break into the zoo, and bring me a gazelle.”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“You’re near the Indianapolis Zoo. In the original story, Heracles’s task was to capture Artemis’s sacred stag.”

Sam frowned. “Are you just doing these for fun? What’s the point?”

The Trickster’s eyes flashed. “The point is, that Artemis’s stag was another metaphor for the spirit of the forest. That’s something that the United States is sadly lacking, and me being so generous, I’m going about fixing this one thing.”

“How . . . noble of you.”

“After getting the gazelle, follow these instructions. That’s it.”

* * *

Breaking into a zoo? Piece of cake. Knocking out the gazelle with a sedative was also pretty easy, though carrying the animal out was difficult.

The hiccup came at the sheet of paper the Trickster had given him.

Sam pursed his lips at disbelief at the spell. There was no way the summoning spell ended by . . . well, urinating on the ashes of the herbs.

Still, he reached for his fly. He had agreed to it.

“Disrobe, and I will destroy you.”

Sam had never zipped up his pants faster in his life. He turned, gaping a little.

“I didn’t mean disrespect, the Trickster—” he weakly started.

“Give me that.” The woman snatched the paper from his hands and laughed. “This is to mock me after I defeated him in our hunt. He fulfills his debt while trying to defile the spirit. Of course.”

Sam nodded in agreement to whatever was going on. The woman, dark eyes roaming over the gazelle, sighed, folding up the paper before fixing him with a severe look.

“Hunter, will you run with me tonight?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

The woman drew herself up, and Sam felt oddly short compared to her incipient power. “I, Artemis, goddess of the hunt, ask if you will run with me?”

“Sure, sounds good,” he said, a little stunned.

He wasn’t sure what to expect, but then the gazelle sprang up, despite the sedative. Sam saw Artemis grin—a flash of teeth that set his heart racing—and they were off.

It was a high. A high Sam hadn’t felt since . . . well, since his first successful hunt, or getting his first A at Stanford, or kissing Jessica. They were running through the forest at inhuman speeds, chasing Artemis’s gazelle and feeling the thrill of the chase; Sam was now willing to give his dad some credit for his love for gritty, outdoor hunts.

“A worthy companion,” Artemis told him as they trapped the gazelle in bramble. “I wish you well on your quest.”

“Thanks,” Sam gasped, huge gulps of mountain air that made him feel like he could leave the world behind.

The Trickster sighed, both Sam and Artemis turning as he appeared behind them. “I should have figured you two would get along.”

“Hermes. You interrupt the hunt.”

The Trickster grimaced. “Well, you have my Heracles under wraps. We need to move on.”

“Very well.” Artemis bowed, and then vanished along with the gazelle.

Sam turned to the Trickster. “Hermes?”

“Sometimes.” The Trickster amiably offered his hand. “Nice work. Now, go placate that brother of yours before he goes sniffing around too much.” His hand grasped Sam's, and the forest blinked away.

Sam opened his eyes in front of the motel door with a pizza in his hand.

“Subtle,” he muttered, but went in anyway.

As usual, Sam felt a huge weight come off of his chest at the sight of Dean, vegging and watching television. As long as Dean was alright, he could do anything.

Dean watched Sam enter, pizza in hand and huge smile on his face.

“What happened to you?” he asked suspiciously.

Sam’s smile grew even larger. “I’m just . . . we’re here, and we’re not dead. I guess I haven’t really thought about it enough.”

“Sure,” Dean said slowly. “Are you drunk?”

“What? No. I mean . . . well, I dunno.”

“That would mean yes.” Dean snapped the laptop shut and stood. “Get yourself cleaned up.”

“I brought pizza.” Sam’s eyes were shining, and Dean wasn’t sure if it was from the drink or something else.

Enough was enough. “What is wrong with you?” he growled. “You go out, all the time, and you keep acting like—“ he gestured to Sam, vaguely.

The remnants of Sam’s good mood seemed to slide away like water off the Impala. “Like what?” he challenged.

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Like you’re somebody else.”

Sam threw down the pizza and moved with a speed and fluidity that left Dean startled. He towered over Dean. “I watched you die,” he growled, low—he sounded like their father. “Don’t ask me to be okay with that.” His hand landed on Dean’s chest, faltering in contrast to his intimidating demeanor. “I will never be okay with that,” he murmured, his fingers bunching in the flannel.

“Alright,” Dean relented. He touched Sam’s temple, feeling like he was trying to tame a wild animal. “But you gotta tell me what’s going on.”

Sam’s face closed off, and he turned back to the bed. Dean watched him go.

He edged into the bathroom, pulling out his phone.

“Ruby,” he murmured.

“Dean. So, what’s going on?”

“Something’s really off with Sam. You gotta help me figure out what it is.”

“Do your best to follow him whenever he goes off by himself,” Ruby suggested. “If that doesn’t work, we’ll go to more extreme measures.”

“Right.” Dean hesitated to get off the phone.

Ruby's voice was soothing in his ear. “It’ll be all right, Dean. We both know that you’ve taken care of your brother since he was born. What’s one more bump in the road?”

“Yeah, I'm just . . . I’m worried. I mean, if I'm gone by May, and he’s on his own . . . I can't do anything about that.”

“We’ll figure this out,” Ruby promised. “Get some rest, Dean.”

“Sure,” Dean mumbled. With a sigh, he snapped his phone shut and edged into the room, Sam already asleep on his bed, curled up with one hand under his pillow, on his gun.

Just another habit that had developed overnight.

Dean didn't sleep much that night.


	5. Erymanthian Boar

Sam looked out the window dully as they drove into town. Sometimes it felt like he had been everywhere in America, nothing left to see. Had they been here before?

“What?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“You said something.”

Dean sounded a little irritated, which had become pretty normal after the snake-hydra fiasco.

“Did I? I didn’t realize.” Sam rubbed his eyes wearily. “You want me to drive?”

Dean’s hard eyes softened a little at the corners. “You look pretty tired. How do I know you won’t crash the car?”

“I’ve driven in worse conditions.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them. Sam turned away, but not before Dean had pinned him down with a glare.

“What do you mean?”

“Uh, at Stanford. Pulled an all-nighter and then had to drive a long way. Craziest drive,” Sam said.

Dean looked unamused. “I don’t appreciate it.”

Sam couldn’t read his brother anymore. Six months had done that, and Sam’s mouth twisted in anger at both the Trickster and himself. “Appreciate what?”

“Being lied to.”

“Now you know how it feels,” he said. The way Dean went stiff in his seat just condemned him further. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to tell Dean about the months spent alone. If Sam didn’t give Dean something, he might leave, and Sam’s heart clenched at the thought.

“You died,” he blurted out.

Dean eased the car off the road and into the parking lot of an old diner. Sam stared at it blindly—had he been to that diner before?

“Are you talking about those Tuesdays?”

Sam swallowed. “No. After those Tuesdays. When I confronted the Trickster, he . . . he wasn’t done teaching his lesson, or whatever. So you died on Wednesday, and you stayed dead.”

“Stayed dead?” Dean repeated.

Sam ducked his head. “For six months. I found the Trickster, convinced him to reset it. So you came back.”

“So that’s why—“ Dean breathed. Sam waited for the anger, the rage at Sam lying to him, but instead there was only silence. He peeked sideways at Dean, who looked a little shell-shocked.

“Dean?”

Dean cleared his throat. “C’mon, man, we’ve gotta check out that hunt.”

It was a little humiliating, feeling like he was six years old and Dean was ignoring him because there was a cool TV show on. He had . . . well, he had expected some kind of reaction.

At least Dean hadn’t left him, though. That was something.

* * *

“Come again?”

The Trickster smirked. “You heard me. Get me the horn. If you touch it, you turn into a wild boar and kill everyone.”

Sam eyed him suspiciously. “Actually?”

“No. But that sounds cooler, doesn’t it?” The Trickster popped some candy into his mouth. “Actually you go crazy. Homicidal crazy.”

“Great.” Sam ran a hand over his face. “Do you have any ideas for keeping Dean out of my way?”

“I’m not your babysitter, kid.” The Trickster raised an eyebrow. “Think you can handle it?”

Sam could remember the way John would eye him, judging him whenever he didn't do as well as Dean, how it would light some fire deep inside of him and smother something else out at the same time.

“I can handle it,” he muttered. He just needed to come up with a viable excuse.

The motel door swung open.

“So I got you some kind of salad . . . I think it even has fruit on it, what kind of weird alien salad is this?” Dean eyed the container in his hand before thrusting it forward for Sam’s inspection.

“Um, yeah, uh, I gotta go out for a sec. I’ll eat with you later.”

“Go out for what?”

Sam hated how much suspicion was in Dean’s voice. He winced, looking around vaguely for some kind of excuse. “I, uh, need to do some laundry.” he snagged his duffle, trying to look truthful.

“Sure,” Dean muttered. Sam could hear the venom in his voice and he hesitated.

“Save me some of that salad,” he tried to joke.

Dean ignored him, and Sam slipped away, feeling lower than dirt.

* * *

“The exhibit is closed for today.”

Sam forced his face into a congenial smile. “Look, I know it’s unorthodox, but do you think you could help me out? I have a paper due tomorrow, and seeing the details myself will really help me out.”

The woman wasn’t immune to his charms, even though she was a little older than Sam.

“Alright. You have to promise to not tell anyone though,” she said reluctantly.

“Cross my heart.” Sam followed her closely until they reached the exhibit filled with Greek pottery and old statues. Any other day, Sam would have enjoyed examining the entire exhibit, but tonight he had to get everything finished.

“Wow. This is marvelous. Could I have time to take some pictures? That way I can get out of your hair.” He smiled beneficently.

“Sure. Just come up front when you’re done,” she said.

Sam watched her leave before going to work.

The security at the museum was pretty lax, but Sam had made sure to hack into their security feed beforehand and put it on loop—one skill that Sam had learned during his time while Dean was dead—and he made sure he was silent with his glass cutter.

“Gloves, check,” he murmured to himself as he reached for the horn. No need to go crazy. Or crazier than he already was.

The horn was intricately carved, beautiful in its own way. Sam gently picked it up and eased it into his messenger bag.

“Thanks for your help,” he said cheerfully as he left.

The woman blushed slightly. “Good luck on your paper.”

Sam made his escape, grinning. That had been the easiest labor yet.

His cell phone rang, and Sam answered. “Hello?”

“Sam! Listen, there’s something going down at the outskirts of town in the forest, and the local news is hamming it up. Does this have to do with our hunt?”

Sam’s blood ran cold. He hadn’t . . . he hadn’t even looked at Dean’s research for the hunt in this town. “Wha-what are we looking at?”

“Some missing people, some excessive violence.”

Sam swore. “Get to the forest.”

* * *

The Impala pulled up, black paint gleaming.

“You get her waxed?” Sam murmured.

Dean’s eyes reflected the flashing police lights. “Yeah, I was just cleaning her up when I heard the radio.”

“This is a bad one,” Sam said.

Dean side-eyed him. “You know that, how?”

“Six months, you were dead,” Sam returned stiffly. He narrowed his eyes at the tree-line, where the cop cars were parked. “We need a way in.”

Dean tossed him an FBI badge. “Follow my lead, Scully.”

“You’re not cool enough to be Mulder,” Sam muttered, but Dean ignored him.

“What’s going on here?”

The cops barely glanced at them. “Some drunks, armed and extremely volatile. We’re doing our best to subdue them without any casualties.”

“Sounds like my kind of party,” Dean drawled. The officer finally looked at them, and in tandem they flashed their badges to keep the questions away. “Look, officer, if you could draw your people back, me and my partner can handle this.”

The officer opened his mouth to protest, and Sam, frustrated, shoved past him without another word. The more they got in the way, the more people would die.

“Dude, what are you doing?”

“Getting the job done,” Sam said tightly.

Dean huffed beside him, but Sam ignored his brother’s irritation and focused on the hunt. Distractions and delays would get you hurt—Sam had been injured several times because of that.

“Sam, we don’t even know—“

A scream in front of them had both of them hurtling forward, Sam pulling out in front thanks to his long legs. The wild laughter made his teeth itch. Sam darted forward, finding the drunken revelers accosting various people, cops and unsuspecting campers alike.

Sam darted forward, attempting to yank one of the attackers back, only to find the man’s eyes glowing white. With a stifled oath, he released the man, bending down to his ankle. His bronze knife was strapped there, and with a sweep of his arm, he drew it free.

He didn't have to kill the possessed people, all he had to do was cut them. Sam darted through their ranks, heedless of their blows, slashing lightly across arms, shoulders, legs. One grabbed him around the waist, and he spun and sliced.

“Dude!”

Sam blinked with incomprehension. “Dean?”

Dean clutched his shoulder, scowling at Sam. “Was that really necessary?”

Reality slammed into place. Sam desperately ripped off his shirt, tearing it into strips.

“It’s going to be okay, Dean,” he babbled, “not deep enough to need stitches, if we clean it soon, we’ll—“

“Stop freaking out.” Dean yanked his arm out of Sam’s grasp. “It’s fine. What’s not fine is you not even telling me we needed to use—“ he glanced at the weapon Sam had dropped, “—a bronze knife. I mean, seriously? How’d you know that?”

Sam looked away, guilt eating at him like acid. He had forgotten that Dean was there. What kind of brother did that?

“We need to clear out of here before the cops question us,” he said instead. It got Dean to back off for the moment, though Sam did notice the sharp look he got. Maybe this would be the time Dean decided he’d had enough of Sam’s lies.

“Don’t move.”

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Man, it’s just a cut. Stop being such a freak.”

Sam’s movements were stiff and awkward, the med kit small in his huge hands. “I should wrap it, at least,” he protested weakly.

“No. Sit.”

Sam sat, a mechanical reaction to a command. Dean swallowed and leaned back a little.

“What did you do?”

Something flashed across Sam’s face. Guilt? Uncertainty? Dean didn’t get a read on it before his face went still.

“What are you talking about?”

“The bronze knife,” Dean said impatiently. “How did you know that would stop them?”

Sam got fidgety whenever he was interrogated—at least that hadn’t changed. “I, uh, bronze stops forest spirits. And, uh, they were in the forest, so that’s how I knew.”

“Strike one,” Dean said.

Sam winced. “It was . . . look, I told you about the months of you being dead, right?”

“Yes,” Dean said slowly. To be honest, he had been avoiding thinking about it.

“I ran across something similar. Before.”

It all clicked into place rather horribly. “You hunted?”

Sam regarded him warily, like he expected Dean to beat him up or walk out of the room. “Yeah.”

It explained a lot. Sam’s weird behavior, his newfound dark focus . . .

Sam had been alone, hunting, for six months.

Dean gave into his instincts and stood swiftly. Sam flinched—another reaction that would never have happened before—as he took the two steps it took to get in front of his brother. Dean put aside all his concerns, all his worries about what Sam was doing and what he was hiding.

“You stupid, stupid little bitch.“ Dean hauled Sam into a hug, trying to think as little as possible about Sam running after a ghost without anyone at his back, Sam in his motel room alone and silent, Sam grieving over Dean’s dead body . . .

It took nearly a minute, but after long enough, Sam relaxed into Dean’s embrace with a barely stifled sigh.

Screw whatever Ruby was saying. Sam was just recovering from being alone for so long. That was all. They would be fine. Sam would be fine.


	6. Augean Stables

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it . . .”

Sam groaned, raising himself slowly from his bed. “You may think you’re funny, but you’re not.”

“Sam, Sam, Sam, you wound me so.” The Trickster dramatically covered his heart. “I thought we were friends.”

“You have an interesting definition of friends.” Sam eyed the Trickster. “That’s Dean’s bed.”

“Cry me a river.”

“Alright, so what’s the next task? Please tell me there isn’t manure involved.”

The Trickster grinned. “I was tempted to whip some up for this specifically, but no, this is much more sanitary. Sort of. I need you to clean my house.”

“Come again?”

He shrugged. “I don’t feel like paying someone to clean my place. Why not have Heracles do it?”

“And it counts as one of the ten?” Sam asked carefully.

“Nope.”

“But you just said—“

“It didn’t count for Heracles, I don’t see why it should for you.”

“But Heracles was paid, in the myth, that’s why it didn’t count,” Sam protested.

The Trickster returned with, “or I could let Dean go to Hell.”

Sam shook his head silently.

“Glad we’ve got that covered.” The Trickster motioned for Sam to come close.

Sam asked, “any chance we might make this happen in an alternate time so that Dean won’t know I’m gone?”

The Trickster smirked. “Brother dearest asking too many questions?”

“That’s one way to put it.” Sam wearily scrubbed at his face. Half of Sam’s exhaustion came from worrying about Dean.

“No dice, kid. I can bend rules, but not that much.” The Trickster leaned over, coming uncomfortably close to Sam’s face. “You’ve stuck with it pretty well, so far. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks?” Sam twisted his hands together. “We doing this?”

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Funnily enough, as much as Sam’s life was spent living in what should be classified as a lower tier of society, he was rather unaccustomed to cleaning in general. Nasty motels and apartments left him never really caring about how clean a place was, as long as it didn’t smell. Living with Jess had taught him to put away his laundry, but her neatness had taken care of most of the mess, and she had given him chores like the dishes. No heavy cleaning.

The Trickster’s house took disgusting to a whole new level, and Sam had no idea what to do.

“This is your home?” he asked. Gingerly, he picked his way over a knocked over trashcan.

“Yup. Cleaning supplies are in the closet. Have fun.” The Trickster left before Sam could say anything else.

His cell phone rang, and Sam fumbled to pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Sam, where are you?”

Crap. “Hey Dean. I had, uh, to meet up with someone.”

“Who?”

“Friends from Stanford, actually,” lied Sam. “They were in the area, and I wanted to catch up with them. They . . .” Sam added the ultimate lie, “. . . knew Jess.”

Dean’s voice softened like Sam knew it would. “Okay. We need to head out in the morning, so at least be back by later tonight.”

“Got it, Dean.”

“Be safe, Sam.”

Something sounded off about it. Sam put his phone back into his pocket, going back to gathering up trash and sweeping mindlessly.

When it finally occurred to him, it made his already-churning stomach lurch. Sam hadn’t been called Sammy since Florida.

It was stupid, really. Sam had used to hate the nickname because it represented how he was the useless one of the family, always patronized and never looked at more than a stupid kid. Dean had used it in that way for most of Sam’s life, but after a while it had slipped into an affectionate name more than an insult.

It was stupid to miss it. Stupid. Sam tried to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest. That was just . . . he was just hungry.

“Gah!” He sprang away from the rotting . . . thing. What was that? It looked like a moldy . . . something. He didn’t know what. He was definitely _not_ hungry.

* * *

After nine hours of cleaning the Trickster’s filthy house, Sam had decided he would never again take a cleaning lady for granted. From now on, Sam was using a percentage of the cash he earned hustling to tip housekeeping.

“Nice work.” The Trickster popped in, glancing around. “You can go back to darling brother.”

“Great.” Sam stretched, his back cracking.

“You might want to hurry. You have an FBI agent on your tail, and he’s closing in fast,” the Trickster revealed.

Sam cursed. “Please, take me back, now,” he begged. “We need to get out of here, before he—“

“Easy, tiger. I’ve gotcha.” The Trickster reached out, and sent Sam stumbling in front of his motel room door. He burst in, Dean jumping up from the bed.

“Sam! What the heck are you—“

“Henricksen’s on his way,” Sam said urgently. “Dean, we need to go, now.”

Dean swore, starting up and scrambling for their things.

The door burst open, and official-sounding voices told them to get on the floor, that they were under arrest, and to put it straight, they were totally screwed.

Dean’s eyes were wide as they were handcuffed, staring at Sam like he wanted answers. Sam swallowed, closing his own briefly before opening them again. They would get out of this. Like always.

* * *

In his desperation to complete the Trickster’s tasks, Sam had forgotten about Lilith, about the demon war going on. His priorities were with saving Dean, and nothing else mattered.

It was a mistake, to ignore it all.

So many dead, because of them. Sam sat, numbly, staring at the silent television set. To think, he had actually celebrated finding new allies in Henricksen and the rest, only to lose them a heartbeat later.

Dean entered into the motel room, grunting, “Ruby’s gone.”

Sam let out a half-smothered laugh.

“What?” Dean growled.

“Everyone dies,” he whispered. “That’s the way it goes.”

So many died, while he was in the Trickster’s world. Dean’s death, over and over. Jo died, during the six months, when they had gone on a hunt together. Sam had stabbed Bobby. Well, not Bobby himself, but it was almost the same thing.

“Sam, what aren’t you telling me?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You so sure about that?”

Sam fell back against the bed. “Doesn’t matter,” he repeated dully. He could feel Dean looking at him, probably considering whether to push it or not.

Dean appeared to choose the negative, and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

One more person who was going to die because of Sam.

“That was too friggin’ close, Ruby,” Dean snarled. Sam was inside, staring at the blank TV like it had the answers to everything.

“Dean, we had no warning, no chance—“

“Something warned him,” he said sharply. “And he ain’t saying what. Something’s going on, and I don’t know what it is.”

“Both of us don’t like this,” Ruby said. “Just means we’ll have to work harder.”

Dean barked out a stiff laugh. In the police station, Sam had almost completely ignored Ruby. No real explanation for that, either.

“Lilith is going to continue to search for your brother,” Ruby continued. “We have to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Yeah, right, got it,” Dean said, wearily. “Now if we could actually do something, that would be great.”

“Watch it, short stuff.” Ruby stepped close, her eyes flashing black. “We’re at a delicate point, here. Big powers at play. You watch out for your brother. And watch your own back.”

Dean blinked, and she was gone. He resisted the urge to curse, or shoot something.

When he entered the room, Sam had curled up on the bed, hand twisted into the covers. Dean watched him for a long time.

Sam whimpered, brow furrowing.

Dean closed his eyes. They had fallen so far.

He reached out, palm covering Sam’s forehead. His little brother’s breathing eased, shoulders relaxing.

“Sleep, Sam,” he murmured. “Rest. While you can.”


	7. Stymphalian Birds

Sam sighed. “So, what’s the next hoop?”

He turned to see the Trickster, smacking his mouth as he enjoyed some kind of candy, resting on Sam’s bed.

The Trickster pouted. “How did you know I was here?”

“I have a psychic sense for annoying entities,” Sam deadpanned.

The Trickster laughed. “It’s easy to forget you have a pathetic sense of humor sometimes. So. This next one is a little tricky. It’s a ritual of sorts, but requires you to take a vow.”

Sam furrowed his brow. “Vow?”

“Yup. Silence, not marriage.” The Trickster tossed him a sucker, which Sam caught absently. “Break it and the task is failed.”

“How long?”

“Twenty-four hours. It’s nothing.”

Sam nodded. “Starting when?”

“Now.”

Sam opened his mouth before snapping it shut again.

“And the vow of silence includes writing, other forms of communication, etc etc. Say a word or nod and Dean gets roasted. Got it?”

Sam scowled, but kept his mouth shut.

The Trickster groaned. “You’re too good. Well, see ya.”

“Sam?”

Sam blanched. He hadn’t even considered Dean. Quickly, he dove under his covers, rubbing his eyes hard enough to make himself tear up, pinching his nose to make it redder. It was sixth grade all over again—first time in middle school without Dean, and Sam had hated his teachers and the other kids, especially the ones who liked to make fun of him, and for the first day he had played the sick card to get out of going.

“Sam, guess what I found? There’s a case nearby that . . . Sam?”

Dean’s voice took on the funny quality it always did whenever something was different with Sam and he hadn’t expected it.

“You sleeping in?”

Sam shifted slightly to let Dean know that he had heard him, but refused to turn his head.

“Are you grumpy because of the mushrooms on your pizza last night? ‘Cause mushrooms are awesome, so you should get over it.”

Only a few minutes in, and Sam was already having to bite his tongue to keep from blurting something out. He burrowed deeper into the bed and tried to avoid looking at Dean.

“Hey. Sam. C’mon, don’t be like that.” Dean’s voice approached the bed. Sam kept entirely still.

“Something wrong? Sam, dude, look at me.”

Sam gave in, peeking up at his brother like he was four and they were playing hide and seek.

“You getting sick?” Dean’s rough palm settled against Sam’s forehead, and Sam closed his eyes. If Sam failed, if the Trickster were lying, if Dean went to Hell, Sam would lose this—lose Dean—for good.

“No fever,” Dean murmured. “Anything hurt?”

Sam shook his head, refusing to open his eyes.

“Alright, kiddo, you just sleep and I’ll research this case. Vampires, man. Should be fun.”

Sam’s eyes snapped open.

But he could say nothing as Dean turned away to Sam’s laptop. Vampires. Dean hunting alone. This was bad.

Sam waited until Dean was absorbed, and then slowly got out of bed, retreating to the bathroom to avoid questions.

The shower did nothing to help Sam clear his head, and he emerged to wander over to his research, trying to ignore Dean.

“Sam, sleep some more if you’re sick.”

Sam leaned over his notes on the nest.

“Well, if you want to be like that, fine,” Dean muttered.

Sam focused on the case. That was all he could do.

* * *

“What do you want for lunch?”

Sam opened his mouth to respond before snapping it shut again. At this rate, he would fail the labor and send Dean to Hell with how well he was doing.

“You’re not sick,” Dean stated. “So what is this, huh? Punish Dean for something he doesn’t know what he’s done Day?”

He winced and hunkered lower over his menu.

“He'll take the ribs with fries. Extra salt.” Sam glowered. Dean raised an eyebrow in response. “Gonna complain? Change your order?”

Lowering his head, Sam took a great interest in the condition of his thumbnails.

Dean’s voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “Is this a punishment? Look, I know you hate the fact that I sold my soul for you, but a little appreciation would be nice. I’m gonna be burning in Hell, and this is how you repay me?”

He could see it. Dean screaming as the flames surrounded him, blackness overtaking him, and blood . . .

“—breathe Sam, darn it, breathe!”

Something hit his back, hard, and Sam gasped, the rush of air releasing him from the black spots encroaching on his vision.

“I’m sorry, Sam, just keep breathing.”

Why was it a concern that he breathe? It would have better that he never started again after Jake stabbed him. Sam finally dragged his gaze to focus on Dean, who had moved from the opposite booth to kneel next to him, face a mask of worry and fear. Sam had done this to him. Taken his life, his soul away.

An apology was on his lips, but Sam bit it back at the last minute. Pushing past Dean, he exited the restaurant hastily, leaving Dean to placate the staff after Sam’s panic attack.

Cleaning up Sam’s mess. As usual.

Bullet to the brain. That’s what Sam needed.

If only he could.

* * *

“I don’t know what you’re punishing me for.”

The words were spoken softly, as a plea for Sam to talk. Sam . . . Sam kept silent. At that, Dean snarled wordlessly and got out of the Impala.

“Whenever you’re done with the silent treatment,” Dean spit at him. Sam stood behind his brother, keeping his grip firm on his good machete. All he could do was follow meekly.

The nest was loud with pop music. Good way to cover them as they entered. Sam watched as Dean gestured and followed his lead.

The vampires may have been idiotic with their music, but they weren’t with their weapons. Sam bit back a shout as one drew out a rifle, instead diving for him and turning the fight into a wrestling match. With fangs.

“Sam, what do you think you’re doing?” Dean yelled. His yell turned into a cry of pain as another vampire snuck up behind him and sank its teeth into his outstretched arm, forcing him to drop his machete.

Sam’s throat practically vibrated with the need to cry out. Instead, he silently grimaced at the vampire, head butting him and sending him sprawling so he could run towards Dean.

The vampire turned away from Dean too late as Sam beheaded it.

“Finish off the rest,” Dean grunted, holding onto his arm.

Sam did his job, but Dean only glared as he approached him again.

As Sam was remaining mute, Dean appeared to have decided that it was fair if he returned the favor. They drove back in silence. They stitched each other in silence. They watched television in silence.

And when Sam was able to speak again, somehow there was nothing he could say.

Dean was tired. His silent brother was riding shotgun, but a part of Dean was wondering if it would be better if he were alone. After all, Sam didn’t seem to want to be here.

“You hungry?”

“I could get some food, if you’re hungry.”

The fact that Sam was speaking now did nothing to omit the fact that for an entire day, Sam had ignored him. Dean knew that Sam sometimes got caught in his own head—that was part of his little brother’s MO. After Jess died, it took Dean three days to get Sam to say much other than yes or no. But Dean could tell the difference, and this had not been Sam getting caught in his own headspace. It had been Sam deliberately ignoring him, and then refusing to explain himself.

The diner was the type Sam might have normally complained about for the sheer amount of grease on the door handle, but Sam obviously knew Dean wasn’t happy, and followed him inside without a word of protest.

“I need to use the restroom,” Sam murmured, and disappeared. Dean let himself slump against the table without a need to keep on his mask.

“What can I get you, Dean?”

His head shot up. The waitress grinned, eyes flashing black, and Dean went for the knife, until—

“It’s me, idiot. You weren’t picking up your cell.” Before, Ruby hadn’t switched meatsuits in the time Dean had known her, which made it somehow more uncomfortable, talking to her now.

“Ruby?” Dean hissed. “What are you doing?”

“Checking up on you.”

“Well, I’m fine, so you can stop now.”

Ruby leaned over, hands splayed on the grimy formica. “Shortcakes, no need to lie to me. I’m in this with you, remember?”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t actually helped. So no, I don’t see how you are with me,” Dean returned.

Ruby narrowed her eyes. “Rumor has it your brother’s shacked up with a powerful entity. No one’s quite sure what it is—demon, god, witch. Something’s got him dancing, and I guarantee it’s not going to be a pretty answer.”

Bile rushed up Dean’s throat, and he forced himself to breathe through it. “Should I ask him about it?” he croaked.

Ruby shook her head. “You do that and he’ll disappear, most likely. Try and figure out what it is. Then we’ll know how to attack.”

Dean sighed. “I just wish I knew—“

“I’ll have a BLT.”

Sam’s voice made Dean jump. He scrambled guiltily for his menu. “I just wish I knew what to have,” he stuttered. Ruby nodded, lifting the waitress’s pad. “We have an excellent chicken sandwich.”

“Better than having some more red meat,” Sam interjected—his voice held a hint of desperation, coated with an obvious desire to make Dean laugh or joke in return.

To hide what was really going on.

Dean bared his teeth in an attempt at a smile. “Yeah, I’ll have that. Thanks.”

Ruby met his eyes meaningfully once more before retreating.

“Dean, are we . . . are we good?”

Whatever had its claws into his little brother was going to pay, Dean swore to himself. He pressed out another smile. “Yeah, Sam, we’re good.”


	8. Cretan Bull

“You want to go where?”

Sam winced at the anger in his brother's voice. “Um, New York?”

“This isn’t to see that Sarah chick, is it?” Dean tossed down his hunting knife on the bed.

“No.”

Dean glared at Sam. “I don’t appreciate all of this weird running around and hiding things.”

Sam cowered. “I’m sorry. It’s . . . it’s important.”

“For what?”

He thought frantically. “Um, I heard their might be a hunt.”

Dean’s eyebrows drew together. “In the middle of New York?”

“Yes?” Sam tried weakly.

“I have no idea what you’re trying, but this time it’s a no. You’re going to have to figure out your lies some other way,” Dean glowered.

The directness of Dean’s confrontation was . . . unexpected. Sam fumbled for another excuse, another way to get Dean to go along with him, but he took too long—Dean snorted and turned back to sharpening his blades.

Sam hunted for another excuse, and had nothing. Except maybe honesty.

“If I don’t do this, I’ll die,” he blurted out.

Dean’s motion stilled. “Is that right?”

Sam swallowed. “Yeah. I can’t . . . can’t tell you about it.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam. “Why do I have any reason to let you pursue this?” he demanded. “For all I know, you’re going to get yourself killed.”

Sam huffed, exasperated. “You have to . . . Dean, you have to trust me.”

Dean’s mouth snapped shut. Sam had backed him into a corner. He had a choice: tell Sam he trusted him, and agree to go to New York, or tell Sam that he didn’t trust him. Sam had suspected for years that the latter was semi-true—in some manner, he was always the one to be watched, not trusted; running behind his Dad and Dean, allowed to hold the shovel, but not to take command. Dean had never viewed it that way, of course, but Sam knew well enough his place in the structure. It was part of why he had left for Stanford.

But Dean would never admit it.

“Look, if we go to New York, can you promise me that it won’t end in you getting yourself killed?”

“Yes,” Sam said.

Dean eyed him, probably debating whether it was worth giving in to Sam on this one. “Fine,” he growled. “Fine, we go to New York. But you better explain yourself.”

“I can’t, Dean,” Sam said patiently. “Not ’til it’s over.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” Dean said under his breath. Sam ignored him, and began gathering up his things. This task was supposed to be easy—simply performing a spell on a statue. Easy.

* * *

Sam swore, kicking at the invisible barrier. The spell required him to finish off with a bit of Sumerian and blood touching the famous statue of the Charging Bull. The Trickster had told him that the statue acted as a guardian against something—who knew what that something was—that the Trickster needed.

The Trickster had even given him the spell. It was supposed to be simple.

If only he could get past whatever stupid spell was blocking him and the charm on his wrist. If he took off the charm, the barrier was nonexistent, but then the spell didn’t work.

It also didn’t help that there were people milling around, despite the fact that it was late at night.

This was ridiculous.

Sam chanted Sumerian in an attempt to break it. Nothing.

Yanking off the charm, he approached again, circling the famed statue. The gleaming bronze surface gave him no hints.

With an awkward glance around, Sam ducked beneath the statue, crawling under the belly and shining a flashlight against the metal.

A symbol, scratched against one of the hooves, caught his eye.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam groaned. “That’s it?”

He used his knife and scratched through it.

Liquid fire raced through his muscles, making his body seize and his head slam painfully against the ground.

When Sam groaned again, opening his eyes, the busy city around him had gone completely silent.

“That isn’t good,” he murmured to himself.

He crawled out from underneath the statue, groaning as his body protested.

Sam blinked. The world around him had gone still. Like it was frozen in place.

“Hello?” he tried.

The metal under his palm shuddered. Sam stepped back, as the metal shifted, creaking.

“Oh, no—“

The bull snorted, turning on him. Sam whirled, going for the charm. The ground shook as the bull charged towards him, forcing him to dart away from the bracelet.

A giant bronze hoof pawed the ground. Sam didn’t have anything cape-like to play matador; when it charged again, he dodged, but it managed to catch his side with the edge of a horn. Sam clasped a hand to his side, grunting in pain. He dragged himself over to the charm, the available blood making it a little easier to complete the spell.

Sam chanted the first part of the Sumerian spell, pushing himself to his feet. The bull shuddered, stumbling to its knees. Sam approached warily. The metal rippled as he put his hand on it, finishing the spell.

Another awful shock went through him, and he fell to the ground.

Sound edged into his perceptions. Sam frowned, blinking as he watched the people walking past him. His blurred vision took in the bull, back where it had started. He laughed, for no real reason.

The laugh made his side twinge, and Sam re-gripped the wound, groaning as blood slid between his fingers.

“Sam!”

Sam blinked. He had reached auditory hallucinations, that wasn’t good.

Dean dropped to his knees beside Sam.

Okay, so, visual hallucinations as well. Maybe the spell had some kind of after-effect.

“Easy, Sam, let’s get back to the motel. C’mon, easy, buddy.” Dean’s hand covered Sam’s, putting on more pressure.

“Tol’ you not to follow me,” Sam said. His voice slurred, which was stupid. He wasn’t hurt that badly, he had been hurt far worse during the Trickster’s six months of torture. He had even stitched himself up on multiple occasions. Dean didn’t need to be here to see Sam like this, weak and useless.

“Shut up, Sam.” Dean’s voice was strained. Sam tried to stand by himself, but ended up leaning heavily on Dean. The trip back to the motel was blurred, as Dean piled him into the Impala, tossing away the parking tickets accumulated on the dash and whipping out into New York traffic.

The next thing Sam knew, he could hear Dean in the bathroom. He lay in bed, stiff bandages around his side and every part of him aching.

The Trickster sat down on Sam’s bed. “You’re giving Heracles a run for his money, kid,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

“Mmm.” Sam couldn’t quite focus.

“Don’t give up,” the Trickster told him. “It will get harder, but you can do it.”

Sam felt his eyes shutting without his instruction.

The Trickster hummed something, and Sam slipped into an exhausted sleep.

The entire trip had been a mistake. Dean knew that. Still, Ruby had told him that he really needed to learn what it was that had control over Sam, and this was the best way to do it.

Seeing him circle around the Charging Bull statue for an hour had not really been in the plans.

“Any signs?” Ruby asked.

Dean jumped, scowling at her. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you I would help. This is a really good opportunity for us.”

Dean sighed, turning his gaze back onto Sam. “Yeah, not so much. Sam’s trying to do a spell, but I have no idea what spell or why. Not like I can ask him, either.”

Ruby frowned, watching him. “The statue is definitely already enchanted in some way,” she said. “Sam might be trying to break that.”

Dean looked at her, and she met his gaze. “It’s probably dangerous.”

Dean turned back and Sam was slumped against the ground, side bloody. He swore, running forward. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Sam for more than a couple seconds.

“Sam!” he called.

Sam’s head rolled a little at Dean’s voice. Dean felt the gaze of several other people, but ignored them as he helped Sam stand, pulling him towards the Impala. Ruby stayed her distance, but her gaze was sharp as she watched them.

Patching up Sam was always simultaneously the best and worst experience in Dean’s life. There was nothing more fulfilling for him than taking care of his brother—at the same time, having Sam hurt and in pain made Dean want to curl up like a child and cry.

Dean was unsurprised when Ruby showed up at the motel while Sam slept.

“Did he say anything?” she asked.

Dean shook his head. “And I doubt he will,” he said numbly.

Ruby’s face darkened. “This isn’t good, Dean. Keep close to him. I’ll follow some leads.”

Dean watched her go, nearly calling her back. He went into the bathroom, splashing water on his face. Going back to the room, he sat next to Sam, watching his brother sleep, pain creasing his face.

Dean reached out, brushing Sam’s hair away from his face. “Tell me what’s going on,” he whispered. “Please.”


	9. Horses of Diomedes

“Let me guess. There’s a haunting at a barn,” Sam guessed.

The Trickster looked more serious than usual. “While most of the labors have been rather removed from the original myths, I’m afraid this one holds pretty true.”

Sam swallowed. “Man-eating horses?”

The Trickster’s smile was a little pained. “Not my choice, but hey, I don’t make up this stuff up.”

“How has this not come to our attention before?” Sam demanded. “Have these horses never killed anyone?”

“It’s pretty remote. I’ll take you there myself, so you won’t have to worry about Dean this time.”

“Hercules didn’t even battle the horses,” Sam reminded him. “He tricked them. What am I supposed to do?”

The Trickster shrugged. “That’s up to you, kid. Your show. Don’t get eaten.”

He reached out, and Sam found himself lying on damp grass. His weapons bag was by his shoulder, and once more, he was dressed in an awkward tunic thing.

“Is this really necessary?” he called. At least Dean wouldn’t seen him in this. He would’ve laughed Sam out of the Impala.

The whinny of a horse propelled Sam to his feet.

He had a job to do.

* * *

The four horses were in the field, eating grass. Distinctly harmless looking. Sam didn’t let it fool him, creeping downwind from them with his shotgun out.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The voice made Sam jump, swinging his shotgun around. The owner of the horses was dressed like Sam, which . . . didn’t make any sense.

“I’m sorry?”

“You shouldn’t be here. The Prince does not allow anyone to come near his horses.”

“Right.” Sam scooted his shotgun behind his back. “Um, do you live around here?”

The man eyed Sam. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Heracles?” he offered, weakly.

“You come to steal the horses,” the man accused.

“What, no, just to kill them,” Sam protested.

The man’s eyes bugged from his skull. “You would murder—“

Crap. Sam offered a weak smile and turned to run, drawing out his shotgun. He would kill them quickly, and then call for the Trickster to get him out. Easy.

The man slammed into Sam from behind. With simultaneous grunts, they tumbled to the ground.

“You’re defending them?” Sam gasped.

“My Prince will know of your treachery.” The guy jabbed his elbow into Sam’s face. Sam turned with the blow, bucking his hips and sending the man sprawling. He followed up with a roll to get back on his feet, hefting his shotgun.

“Stay down or I shoot.”

The man’s image suddenly flickered. For a second, Sam could’ve sworn he saw fire. He took a step back.

With a roar, the man went straight for Sam; Sam took the shot.

The man dissipated like a ghost.

“Weird,” Sam muttered to himself.

He continued onward, stopping only to grab his bag and lace up his ridiculously-uncomfortable sandals. The horses were merely grazing—maybe they didn’t actually eat flesh. If Sam was lucky.

Sam racked the shells and aimed.

His bullet went straight through the head of the horse . . . and the horse kept eating. Sam swore, digging through his bag.

One of the horses whinnied, its eyes flashing red. The one with the hole through its head snorted, raising its head to face Sam.

“I’m so dead,” he muttered. He grasped his machete—it was quickly turning out to be his most useful weapon—and braced himself.

A horse ran towards Sam. He waited until the last second before dodging to the side, letting his blade rake its side. The horse screamed, an awful sound, and whirled on Sam,  shoving him to the side.

Upon touching it, Sam felt his knees give out, and he shuddered violently, stomach aching with hunger that wasn’t his own.

“Wha—“

The horse tried to bite Sam, but he managed to stab upwards, into its chest. It collapsed, leaving Sam breathing heavily as he stood over its body.

The other horses hadn’t stopped grazing.

Sam took a step back. Four horses. The four . . . four horses of the apocalypse? Sam cast his mind back to the book of Revelation and tried to remember which one was which. He had just killed the horse of famine. That left death, war, and conquest. War and conquest probably would be the hardest, so Sam went for the sick-looking horse.

Just when Sam got three feet away, it turned. On the ground between them, Dean lay prone, chest and face bloody.

Sam paused.

The horse reared, one hoof almost touching the side of Sam’s head. He could’ve sworn in the brush of air, that he felt a knife in his back, in the place where Jake had—

As it came down, Sam stabbed across its neck, decapitating it. The horse of death staggered, flesh falling from its bones as it dissolved.

A sound like a trumpet blared forth, the most terrifying sound Sam had ever heard. He whirled, barely managing to dodge the charging horse. It’s bronzed coat told him all he needed to know.

“Yeah, c’mon, big tough guy, that’s right, that’s right.” Sam knelt, tempting the horse.

As he predicted, it charged again. Sam spun to the left and slashed, opening its belly. The horse crumpled with an animalistic scream, just as the last one raised its head and snorted.

There was a field of horses, galloping towards him.

“Not real, not real,” Sam told himself. He tried to focus, pick out the right one, but he was too slow, and one slammed into him. He was sent flying, and when he landed, there was a cracking sound in his chest.

Sam snarled, forcing himself to stay conscious.

The horses wheeled around again. Sam pushed himself to his feet, groaning at the pain.

“Which one,” he muttered. An echoing cry rang out from the surrounding horses.

It had an origin. One had made the sound first. Each pawed the ground, and Sam pinpointed the lead horse.

“Alright, come on.”

The horses all charged, but Sam kept his eyes on the one. He stabbed.

It died like the others did. Sam watched it collapse, the other horses vanishing.

Sam walked away.

When the Trickster came, he was sitting on the ground, machete in his hands.

“It’s always blood,” he murmured. “Just keep killing and hope the other thing doesn’t kill you. If a monster is something that kills someone, what does that make the thing that kills it?”

The Trickster hauled him up with one surprisingly strong yank. “Enough philosophizing kid. You’re saving your brother. Think on that.”

“Saving Dean,” Sam murmured. “Right.”

“Are you even trying?”

Dean whirled. “Excuse me?”

Ruby was leaning against the motel wall. “I mean, how long have you been trying to get your brother to tell the truth, and you still don’t know what he’s up to?”

“Shut up,” Dean growled. He got into her face, smelling the sulfur on her breath. “I will figure this out.”

Ruby’s eyes softened, and she gently touched his cheek. “I know you will. But you need to be careful about this. If Sam’s in as deep as I think, we may need to pull out some whacky methods to free him.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?” Dean asked. He didn’t pull away from her touch.

“I have some tricks up my sleeve. With the right combination, we’ll free Sam.” Ruby’s hand slid into his hair. “Dean, don’t worry.”

“My brother’s in that room, looking like he’s got a broken rib, but he’s trying to pretend he’s fine and he won’t tell me what happened. Like hell I won’t worry.”

Ruby’s eyes turned black, but Dean was used to it by now—he didn’t flinch back. “C’mon, Dean-o. When your brother was dead you saved him. I don’t think there’s anything that’ll stop us.”

“I hope you’re right,” Dean said darkly.

“Honey, I’m the queen of being right.” Ruby smirked, tossing her blonde hair. She leaned forward, pressing her lips against Dean’s chastely. “You take care of that brother of yours.”

Dean murmured, “always do,” but as Ruby left, he wondered if that was actually true.


	10. Girdle of Hippolyte

Something was different. Sam woke up slowly, trying to get his bearings. Beside him, he heard a groan, and turned to see Dean. So that was the same.

Dean’s eyes blinked open and Sam sat up.

There was a weight on his chest that hadn’t been there before. Sam looked down and nearly cursed aloud. Turning him into a girl? That was low, even for the Trickster.

“How much did I drink last night?” Dean muttered behind him. Sam turned, ready to see his brother freak out, but instead got a strange, bland smile.

“Hey, sweetheart. Sorry, musta gone past my limits quite a bit. Look, I have to figure out where Sam is, do you remember seeing him last night?”

Sam wasn’t sure whether to laugh or get mad. “It’s me, I’m Sam,” he said sternly.

“That’s my brother's name, too.” Dean’s smile grew even more false. “Okay, gimme a sec.” He hopped out of bed, rummaging through his jeans for his cell. Sam sighed as his own cell phone went off in the corner.

“He must be out getting breakfast,” Dean murmured.

“Or maybe he just wants to punch you in the face,” Sam returned.

Dean’s eyes grew dark, and Sam felt a shiver of fear run through him at the sight—Dean only looked that way while he observed monsters . . . had he finally decided Sam was demon-spawn that deserved to die?

“What did you do to my brother?” Dean snapped.

Sam relaxed minutely. “Dude. I am your brother.”

Dean laughed, and Sam frowned.

“I’m not sure what your game is, dude, but you better ‘fess up quick.”

“When you were ten years old, I borrowed your batman toy and broke it. You were so mad that you yelled at me to go away, and I ran out of the motel and was nearly hit by a car. You felt bad, so you bought me a toy out of your own savings.”

For a moment, Dean gaped at him.

“Sam?”

“Yup.”

Dean’s expression slowly morphed into glee. “Dude. You’re a girl.”

“No, really?” Sam replied sarcastically.

Dean suddenly paled. “We didn’t, last night—“ he made a crude gesture, and Sam looked at him in disgust.

“Dean, c’mon. We got the king because they were out of doubles, remember?”

“Oh yeah.” Dean snorted. “You’re a girl.”

Sam let out a put-upon sigh. “Whenever you decide to grow up, I’d appreciate help getting out of this predicament.”

“Keep your hair on, Samantha.”

Sam hopped off the bed and went into the bathroom before he actually punched Dean in the face.

“Alright, what’s the game?” he hissed.

“The game is . . . well, the stories have it that Heracles spent a little time having to work as a female slave. Figured you should follow the tradition.”

The Trickster’s eyes were a little too lascivious for Sam’s tastes, and he folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah? So what’s the labor?”

“I believe you know Bela Talbot,” the Trickster said. “She stole a belt from me. Get it back.”

Sam felt his eyebrows drawing together. “And you made me a girl because—“

“Well, you need a disguise, don’t you?” The Trickster grinned. “Maybe after this, you won’t make fun of the other gender so much, hm?”

“But I don’t—“ the Trickster was gone, and Sam sighed, briefly checking his reflection. It was no wonder Dean hadn’t believed him, since he was now a foot shorter than usual, with similar but more feminine features and hair that went down his back. He squinted at his hairline and saw an old scar from a head wound. At least he was still technically himself. Sort of. “This is gonna suck,” he said feelingly.

“You done primping yourself, princess?”

Sam emerged, feeling even more off-put at having to look up at Dean.

“Hey, how do you know you haven’t stolen the body of some innocent girl, and she’s running around as you?” Dean suddenly asked.

Sam turned, lifting up the back of his shirt. The sight of that particular scar instantly sobered the situation for Dean, and he finally looked like he was taking this thing seriously. “Right. So, witch?”

Sam shrugged. He had Bela to find, and sending Dean off on a wild goose-chase would do the trick.

* * *

“Bela Talbot?”

“Who is this?”

“I was told you might be able to help me.” Sam coughed, trying to avoid the temptation to lower his voice and keep it higher. “There were some hunters, and they couldn’t do anything. I stole one of their phones and found your number. Can you help?”

“Depends on what it is, dear.” Bela sounded intrigued. “Who were the hunters?”

“Uh, Sam? And Dan? Or maybe it was something else.”

“Huh.” There was silence for a moment. “Where are you?”

“An hour away from Detroit.”

“Meet tonight at midnight. I’ll text you the details.”

“Thank you.” He hung up the phone and looked down at himself in the overlarge t-shirt and boxers. How was he supposed to go out if his jeans wouldn’t even fit?

“Hey, Sam. Open up.”

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Sam called.

“Well, I got you clothes. Open up.”

Sam flushed the toilet to make the lie stick and opened the door. “What?”

The tips of Dean’s ears were red, something that Sam would have mocked, under normal circumstances.

He pulled out the clothes and glared at Dean. “Dude. A skirt, really?”

Dean’s blush became an even deeper red. “You try to find pants that aren’t weird,” he shot back. “Unless you want to go shopping for a couple hours, Samantha.”

“Stop calling me that,” Sam grit out. “Fine.” He slammed the door and sighed.

* * *

Bela entered with a smirk and a gun. “So, dearie, you have some work for me? You better have money, too.”

“Of course, course,” Sam fumbled. “This ghost has been haunting me. I need it to leave.”

The hotel room Bela had procured was overly fancy and bright. Bela was dressed professionally . . . with a silver belt around her waist.

“The hunters, they said they couldn’t help me,” Sam told her.

“Yes?”

“They told me it was attached to my . . . well, my husband, he donated a kidney. To, um, me.”

“Cheers to that. Right. Well, there are a couple simple spells we can use.” Bela quirked an eyebrow. “Money, though?”

Sam nodded violently, feeling the unnatural shift of hair around his face. He handed over his wallet, waiting until she examined it before pulling out his gun.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to do this.”

Bela had gone absolutely still. “A demon put you up to this?” she asked.

Well, it was close. Sam gave a noncommittal gesture and pointed the gun at her midsection. “The belt. Take it off.”

Bela’s eyes narrowed as she slowly obeyed. “So, not a demon. Is this for you or your boss?”

“I can’t say.” Sam nodded for her to toss the belt over, which she did.

“Are you going to shoot me?”

“No.” Sam took the belt and slowly backed up. “I am sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you will be,” Bela promised.

Sam made his escape, running all the way back into his empty motel room.

“Nice work. Labor complete.” The Trickster took the belt from Sam with no further fuss.

“So you can turn me back?”

“Wait ’til midnight, Cinderella.” The Trickster disappeared and Sam growled.

His cell phone rang, and Sam suppressed a sigh as he picked it up.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Dean,” he responded, hating how high his voice was.

“Look, I couldn’t find anything about witches, but Bobby told me these things tend to wear off in a day or so. Something about expending too much energy?”

“Yeah,” Sam said neutrally.

“Why don’t you join me at the bar? Try out those girl bits and see how the other side likes it, huh?”

“You’re such a pig.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

There was, Dean thought, something hilarious about having Sam as a girl. The sheer amount of jokes available made his brain hurt.

And also, there was something . . . fulfilling.

When Dean was twenty, Sam had woken up one morning and realized he was taller than Dean. The sheer amount that he’d gloated was equivocal to having cured cancer. Dean had sulked, Sam had preened, and life had gone on.

But there was still some small part of Dean that had mourned the loss of being able to literally carry his brother.

Dean was bigger than Sam-as-a-girl, and somehow that made him feel stronger, better.

Sam shouldered his way onto the bar stool next to Dean, scowling.

“Dude, live a little,” Dean grinned.

“It’s awkward and I hate being short,” Sam complained.

Everything had been so screwed up after their time in Florida, and it was a relief to be able to laugh and get Sam's bitch face in return. “Hey, wanna hustle those guys over there?”

Sam folded his arms across his larger-than-usual chest. “No, Dean. All of my skills are gone in this body, and I’m not going to be able to play right.”

“Spoil my fun,” Dean said easily. He turned to survey the room at large.

“Hey, baby, wanna have some fun?”

“Get your hands off of me.”

Dean whirled, finding some creep hanging off of Sam, hand shoving its way up his shirt.

He wasn’t quite sure what happened, but when he came back to himself, Sam was tugging on his arm, the guy on the floor, and Dean’s hand was aching a little.

They were shoved unceremoniously out of the bar, Sam tripping on the threshold and Dean catching him.

“I should kill that—“

“Dean, enough.” The sheer weariness in Sam’s voice made Dean pause. As amusing as this girl-Sam thing was, it probably wasn’t all that great from Sam’s side of things.

“Want to go back to the motel?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

Dean kept an eye on him as they drove back. Whatever Sam was hiding . . . maybe he’d be a little more willing to talk in his, well, current state. Especially if Dean got some drinks into him.

Instead, as soon as they got to the motel, Sam got into the bed, clothing and all, curling into an even smaller ball.

“Sam?”

“What, Dean?”

“You . . . you okay? That guy, he didn’t—“

“I’m fine, Dean.”

Lies upon lies upon lies. Dean wanted to scream at Sam, punch him in the face, but he couldn’t hit a girl, and hitting Sam never did anything except make Dean feel like crap, and it was all so stupid.

He climbed into bed. He hovered over Sam, cataloging how small he was, soft and vulnerable. Dean could protect him this way. Maybe it would be better if he stayed like this. If Dean could be the strong one.

The thought burned and filled Dean with guilt. He swallowed, his hand brushing lightly over Sam’s long hair. Sam stiffened—obviously awake, but not willing to show it.

“Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you,” he promised, emptily.

After a moment of being completely still, Sam turned over and curled into Dean, reminding him of days when Sam was five and had a nightmare. Dean closed his eyes, burying his face in Sam’s hair. This way, he could pretend he was protecting Sam.

But even as he fell asleep, Dean could’ve sworn he heard Sam say, “I’ll save you, Dean. I promise.”


	11. Cattle of Geryon

Sam rubbed his eyes. In his journal he had listed the number of tasks he had completed for the Trickster. He only had three left.

Dean was gone, out somewhere in the city, and Sam didn’t know what he was doing. It killed Sam to not know that Dean was safe inside the motel, but he couldn’t very well get on Dean’s case about running off when he was disappearing so much himself with the Trickster’s labors.

It was best he got these done as soon as possible before he lost Dean for good.

“Trickster,” he murmured, “are you ready for me?”

The Trickster appeared. Sam wondered vaguely if he had anything else he was doing, or if he was just creeping around, watching Sam. It was a rather terrifying thought.

“Eager, I see. That’s good. And you’ll like this one, too.”

“Why’s that?” Sam asked.

The Trickster grinned. “This time, you’ll actually be helping some people. You like that, don’t you?”

“I guess.” Sam shut his journal, sliding it under the bed. “What’s the deal with this? Do I need to get my cowboy boots?”

The Trickster pointed at him warningly. “Watch the sarcasm, boy. Unless you’d prefer to see Dean burn in Hell.”

Sam swallowed, and said nothing.

The Trickster eyed him. “Right. If you’re done, let’s get a move on. Herd of cows has already trampled a kid.”

Sam blinked. “Actual cows? That’s the task?”

The Trickster rolled his eyes. “Ghost cows. A little different.”

“Right,” Sam said slowly. “Any history?”

“You’ll figure it out. I’ll take you straight there.”

Sam huh’ed. “Great,” he said warily. He waited for the ball to drop—nothing.

“I’m assuming you need your hunting supplies?” the Trickster asked impatiently.

Sam started, turning to his things. “Right. Sorry.” He was low on gasoline, but had plenty of salt. “Can we stop by a gas station?”

The Trickster rolled his eyes. “I’ll get it.”

He disappeared, suddenly reappearing five seconds later with a can of gas.

“Great,” Sam said. “Now—“

The Trickster snapped his fingers, and Sam was left blinking as bright sunlight filled his vision.

“This is fantastic,” he grumbled. “Drop me in a place, no research to know where to find the bones, no way to figure out why on earth cows would be ghosts . . . thanks. Thank you so SO much.”

There was, predictably, no response, and Sam bared his teeth at the sky helplessly.

A decrepit-looking barn on the horizon was a promising start. Sam marched towards it.

The barn itself was a hazard. Sam ducked beneath the boards meant to keep people out, the shaky structure moaning as the wind rushed through it.

Graffiti adorned the walls. Sam glanced at it cursorily but then paused. One drawing was of a bull, but it looked symbolic, rather than artistic.

“Okay,” he muttered.

“What are you doing here?”

Sam whirled. The woman looked no-nonsense, hands on her hips, weathered face scowling at Sam.

“I, um, heard about the death,” Sam fumbled. If he had time to do his normal process of research, he probably would have a better cover. “I wanted to see if I could help, um, help in some way.”

She regarded him thoughtfully. “That right?”

Sam nodded, trying to look as honest as possible.

The woman pointed. “They trampled him down in the valley. Only problem is, there haven’t been cows in pasture on this ground for years.”

“It’s kind of what I do. Looking into the unnatural and strange,” Sam explained.

“You better come with me.”

* * *

Gertrude was, in many ways, a breath of fresh air. The Trickster’s finagling, Dean’s suspicion . . . Sam was tired of lies and secrets. She was straightforward and to the point, showing Sam where the ghost herd came through, telling him what time they came every night, and getting him the ranch’s old records.

Sam slammed the musty book down with a grin. “So get this. There was someone skimming off the top. Probably the manager. Cost records here show that there were eventually significant portions missing before it cut off.”

“So . . . the owner found out?” Gertie asked.

Sam tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Sounds right. The real question is, did the owner kill the manager? If the ghost were his, it would make sense. But why channel it into the herd?”

“Maybe when the owner confronted the manager, the manager got the upper hand. Killed the owner.”

Sam frowned. “Why would that change anything?”

Gertie’s weathered hand came down on the book. “The owner probably cared about those animals. This kind of skimming comes from not buying enough feed, treating the animals poorly.”

“Giving enough rage for the owner to lay a curse on the manager from the grave,” Sam finished. “Gertie, that’s brilliant.”

“It’s only brilliant as long as you can do something about it,” she said.

Sam nodded. “The owner’s grave. And maybe the manager’s, just to make sure. Is there a local graveyard?”

Gertie nodded. “You go there, I’ll watch over the field.”

Sam looked at her. “No, that isn’t safe. You need to stay far away.”

“I don’t think so. A kid died on my property, and I ain’t letting another accident happen on my watch.” She crossed her arms.

Sam sighed. “Fine.”

The hunt was going fine, until the farmer appeared. He threw Sam into a headstone, the stone grinding into his back.

Sam managed to crawl over to the grave, sprinkling salt heavily over the bones. This would be the point where Dean would come in with the gasoline, but Dean was not here—dead, for months and Sam was all alone—so Sam dragged himself back into the fight, dumping gasoline and lighting the match as the farmer clutched at his ankle, trying to drag him away.

Too tired to cover the grave again, Sam limped out of the graveyard. Upon reaching Gertie’s house, he let himself in, settling down against the couch. “Gertie?” he called.

There was no answer. She was probably still watching over the field, he thought guiltily. Sam pushed himself out of the comfortable position, dragging his feet on the way down to the field.

“Gertie!”

There was a faint moan. Adrenaline shot through him, and Sam ignored his own pains as he ran.

Gertie was lying, prone, body broken.

“No! Gertie!”

Her brown eyes found his, easing a little at the sight of him.

“Cows are the worst,” she muttered through her teeth. “That’s why I have horses.”

Sam’s hands hovered helplessly over her body. “Gertie, hang on, I’ll get help,” he promised. He called 911, ignoring the operator and barked out the address Gertie gave him.

“See? You’ll be fine,” he said desperately.

“Did you take care of it?” Gertie asked.

“Yeah, he’s gone, it’s over,” Sam promised.

“Good,” Gertie sighed. She closed her eyes.

“Gertie, stay with me,” Sam pleaded. “Don’t go.”

She didn’t respond.

* * *

Sam said nothing as the Trickster took him back. The Trickster, for once, didn’t open his mouth either.

“Give me . . . give me a couple days,” Sam said hoarsely, as they arrived in front of the motel.

“Very well.”

Sam entered. Dean’s absence would have normally felt like a reprieve—no need to lie, make up some reason for his own disappearance—but now it felt like a black hole, an absence that made Sam want to take out his gun, taste the gunpowder, and . . . Sam needed . . . needed someone. He was surrounded by death and it was all his fault, Gertie . . .

Sam curled up on his bed, and let the guilt drown him.

“Tell me you have something.”

For once, Ruby seemed to be completely serious. “I do.”

Dean hated how desperate he sounded. “What?”

“This.” She handed over a bracelet. It was simple braided leather, nothing marking it.

“What is it?”

Ruby sat down next to Dean, entwining her fingers in his over the bracelet. “It’s a way to break influence. If you put it on him, the bond between whatever entity is controlling him will be weakened. Not sure-fire, of course, but it has a shot.”

“That’s not enough.”

Ruby tilted her head. “Okay, Dean. Here’s the plan. I’ll confront Sam, next time he goes out. Hunt him down, have it out with him. If he ignores me, then it’s up to you. Your next step will be to leave him.”

Dean reared back. “What? That’s the opposite of what I should do.”

Ruby shook her head. “Whatever this thing is, it’s controlling Sam through his devotion to you. If you leave him, telling him that you can’t trust him, he may be able to break free from its influence at the shock of your departure.”

Dean leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands. “Pretty far-fetched,” he mumbled.

Ruby placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Dean, Sam’s lost right now. We’re helping him find his way back. What if you left him like this? You know he would only end up getting himself killed, or worse, damned to Hell.”

“You’re right. I know, you’re right, I just . . . I hate this.”

Ruby tilted his face back to hers, kissing him deeply. “Dean,” she murmured. “You’re strong. You’ve always been stronger than anyone’s recognized. You can do this.”

He kissed her back, and it felt like he was drowning. Clinging to her was the only thing that made sense.


	12. Apples of the Hesperides

Sam swore under his breath, backing up as he gripped his silver knife. In the darkness of the sewer, it was impossible to see anything.

“This is really cute.” Sam’s own voice echoed out of the darkness. “I mean, what do you think? You think you can get me to spill my dark secrets? Think again.”

A blow came from behind Sam, shoving him into the slimy sewer wall.

Sam twisted, seeing his face snarling back at him.

“You will tell me where to find the apple of Hesperides,” he growled.

The shifter laughed sharply. “There is no such thing, you idiot.” His fist crashed into Sam, sending him down into the muck.

Sam rose with difficulty, dodging another blow in favor of falling back against the slick sewer wall.

“How long have you lived down here?” he asked.

Distracted, the shifter stopped its attack.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Sam used its distraction and swept its legs out, following it down and slamming its face against the sewer floor. He whipped out the knife given to him by the Trickster, holding it against its throat. “Say one thing. I am Nereus.”

The shifter’s eyes flashed. “What?” it hissed.

“Say it!” Sam snarled.

“I am Nereus.” The shifter laughed, “what, is that supposed to do something?”

“Yes.” Sam slit the shifter’s throat, following it up with a jab into its heart. It was an almost-replica of Sam himself, and it felt strangely satisfying to kill it.

He left it lying on the sewer floor.

The Trickster was waiting at the entrance. “You got him to admit he was Nereus?”

Sam nodded, passing the knife over with the shifter’s blood.

The Trickster murmured something under his breath and the knife flashed white, spinning in his palm to point in a direction.

“Spell numero uno is completed. I’ll follow this little bad boy to the next spot. Stay put.”

The Trickster disappeared. “Thanks,” Sam muttered under his breath. He sagged against the wall, feeling the ache of bruises that were starting to form and set in.

His cell phone rang. Sam opened it wearily. “Yes?”

“Sam, where are you?” Dean sounded strangely calm, which was not a good sign.

“I had an errand to run,” Sam said. “Are you okay?”

There was a long, long pause. “I’m fine, Sam. Come back soon.”

Relieved, Sam ran a hand through his grimy hair. “Yeah, man. I’ll—“

The phone cut him off with a click. Dean had hung up on him.

The Trickster popped into existence in front of Sam. “Right! Are you a good wrestler?”

“Moderately,” Sam said uncertainly. “Why?”

The Trickster snapped his fingers.

* * *

“Say it,” Sam growled.

The chokehold he had on the creature slipped a little, and it managed to elbow Sam in the stomach. He scrambled to get back the hold, the slime on the creature’s skin making it difficult for him to keep a grip.

“Why would I do anything for you, hunter,” it snarled.

The knife had fallen when they had been fighting. Sam twisted its arm behind its back, slamming its face against the floor.

“Say, ‘I am Antaeus,’” he repeated. “Or I’ll rip your arm out.”

“I am Antaeus.”

Sam ripped out its arm, allowing him enough time to retrieve the knife.

“Go to hell,” it snarled at him as he approached.

Sam smiled, a little. “See you there.”

* * *

Sam also had to kill an eagle—a bit of an illegal endeavor, but he had chosen an old bird in a rescue place . . . hopefully it wouldn’t harm the eagle population.

The next task was to destroy a statue of Atlas. Again, illegal, but Sam was pretty good with demolitions, something he kept hidden from Dean for fear of his brother’s pyromania leading them to even more destruction than they already accomplished.

And then came the dragon. Or, more accurately, a Chinese curse that caused a dragon to form from an ancient vase.

“You’re telling me this wimpy knife will kill that?” Sam asked dubiously.

The Trickster took a step back as flames hit the ground to his left. “Hey. That knife can kill anything. You just have to worry about getting close enough. I’ll send the next part of the task in your direction.” He teleported or whatever. Sam sighed and turned back to the task.

“C’mon, Ladon, I won’t wait forever,” he growled.

The dragon growled in response, spurting fire in Sam’s direction. Sam dodged, the heat brushing his skin.

He rushed forward, ducking as the dragon’s tail whipped towards his head. The knife slid through it like butter, and then through the dragon’s skull, a death rattle echoing from the dragon’s maw.

A figure appeared, not too far away. Sam stood, wiping the sweat away from his brow. He laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “I should’ve known it would be you,” he spat.

Ruby cocked her head, eyes sliding into black. “This is a strange game, you’re playing, Sam. And I think I speak for your brother when I say, you are way off the reservation.”

“Maybe.” Sam brushed away the blood from his busted lip and gripped the Trickster’s knife. “And maybe that doesn’t matter anymore.”

For a moment, frustration flashed across Ruby’s face. “What are you pursuing?” she asked. “Who’s controlling you?”

Sam pushed his mouth into a smirk. “You have no idea, do you?” he taunted. “Well, here. Let’s make a deal. You say one thing, and I’ll tell you.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “Deal.”

“Say, ‘I am the Hesperides.’”

Ruby’s eyes flickered black, back and forth, like she was agitated. “Why?”

“Say it.”

“Is this a trick?” she demanded.

“Say it.”

“Fine. I am the Hesperides. What does that even mean?”

Sam smiled coldly. “It means, you’re done trying to mess with me, Ruby.”

He threw the knife, accurately, and it imbedded itself in her chest.

One more labor. That was it, and Dean would be free.

Dean cleared his throat. “Bobby sent this. Protection of some kind.”

Sam took the leather bracelet and looked at him with some surprise—probably because Dean hadn’t said a word since Sam had gotten back. “Thanks,” he said.

Dean eyed him for a moment. “Sam,” he said abruptly.

“Yeah, Dean?”

“You have to tell me what’s going on.”

Sam’s swallow was audible. “I can’t do that, Dean.”

Dean shoved back his chair, standing. “Then I’m leaving.”

He had never seen Sam look so shocked before. He steeled himself. It was like Ruby had told him, Sam had to realize how far he was falling. “What?” Sam croaked.

“You’re so far gone, man. This whole time, sneaking around, lying to me? Do you even care that I’m going to Hell?”

Sam’s expression was raw with terror and anguish. “Dean, wait—“

“Then why? Why won’t you tell me what you’re doing? It’s not something with the deal, because I’ve talked to Bobby, and he’s admitted you two are stumped. So, what is it? Making plans for a vacation once I’m gone?”

The words fell out of his mouth like lead. Sam gaped at him, and something cruel inside of Dean wanted to tell him he looked like an idiot. Sam’s response was weak. “Dean, it’s not like that . . . I can’t really . . . I can’t—“

All Dean wanted to do was apologize, but he had to be strong. If this couldn’t get through to Sam, then nothing could. “Well, I’m gone, Sam. Until you turn your head around and stop whatever self-destructive . . . thing, this is.”

Sam started up, hands outstretched. “No, Dean, please. I promise this isn’t . . . I can’t explain now, but it isn’t bad, it’s important, and you can’t leave, plea—“

“Why?” Dean roared. If he didn’t stay angry, he might lose his nerve, and Ruby had said . . . “Why should I stay with someone who doesn’t even want me around? Who lies to me? I don’t trust you anymore, Sam! For all I know, Dad was right, and you’re turning into a demon as we speak.”

Tears were openly coursing down Sam’s cheeks. “Dean—“

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

Dean strode through the door, slamming it shut behind him with enough force to have a nearby inhabitant of the motel yell. He wiped his own eyes, taking a shuddering breath. This had to work.

Sam wiped away his tears. He looked down at the thin leather band twisted in his fingers. He slid it onto his wrist. “Trickster.”

“You called?”

He took a shuddering breath. “Let’s finish this.”


	13. Cerberus

For once, the Trickster seemed almost sympathetic. Sam watched him, from his position on the motel bed. He hadn’t moved since Dean had left.

The Trickster knelt before him. Under normal circumstances, Sam would have flinched backwards, but instead he did nothing as the Trickster put a hand on his knee. “Final step, kid. You sure you want to do this?”

“Just tell me what it is,” Sam said hoarsely.

For a moment, the Trickster’s eyes became soulful, but then they flashed back to his normal hard flint. He stood. “A trip to Hell.”

Sam dropped his head into his hands. “Everything you made me do, and you want to have me do the same thing as a demon would’ve asked? Switch places with Dean?”

“Not exactly.” The Trickster whipped out the belt of Hippolyte. “Remember this?”

Sam took it with careful hands. “Yeah. Belt of . . . protection of some kind?”

“It’ll keep Hell from destroying your body while your soul is in Hell.” The Trickster watched Sam as he put it on. “What do you know about the final story of Heracles?”

“Fetching Cerberus? Is that my task?”

“Close enough. Your knowledge of demons is frighteningly pathetic, so I’ll explain one concept to you that most people don’t realize. The hellhounds? They run the place.”

The part of Sam that wasn’t numb from Dean leaving—if there was a part, Dean, how could he leave?—listened closely. “But the demons make the deals, and the hellhounds are the muscle.”

“Nope. The hellhounds can do whatever they want. The demons make deals with them, giving them favors, taking care of their whims, and in return the hellhounds will occasionally allow them to make deals for human souls.”

“Huh.” Sam stood slowly. “So all this time I’ve been approaching the wrong angle.”

The Trickster shrugged. “Either way, we’re here now. And in order to save your brother, you need to go into Hell, find the hellhound that controls Lilith, and kill it to steal your brother’s deal back from it.”

Sam surveyed him. “Well, then let’s do it.”

“Sam. You need to be one hundred percent sure about this. Is your brother worth it to you? He did just leave you, after all.”

“Don’t even start that.”

The Trickster tilted his head. “It’s odd.”

“What is?”

“Your devotion. It is . . . in some ways, a little admirable.”

“Did that hurt?” Sam asked wryly.

The Trickster ignored his comment. He clapped his hands together. “Right, let’s get this puppy started. You already did the vow of silence for purification. Next step, we need to visit the Styx.”

Sam opened his eyes, and he was in front of . . . a normal river.

“What is this?”

“The Styx.” The Trickster handed him the horn of the Erymanthian boar. “Drink from this. It will give you the strength to get through the trials ahead.”

Sam swallowed it willingly enough. He had to save Dean. He had to save Dean. He had to—

“How’s your singing?”

“Excuse me?” Sam blinked at the Trickster.

“You need to sing a song. To open the door to Hell. Doesn’t matter what it is, just sing.”

Sam raised an eyebrow, but complied. Highway to Hell seemed appropriate enough. Dean would’ve laughed.

The boulders on the other side of the river split in half, crumbling away from each other and leaving a dark crevice. Sam took a deep breath, starting forward.

“Hang on there, cowboy.” The Trickster handed him a bag. “The apple is in here. To get out of Hell, you need to eat it once you’ve released Dean’s deal. A dagger made from the Hydra’s tooth is also in there to kill anything you come across.”

“How will I find his deal?”

The Trickster shook his head. “You’ll find it.”

“Is that all?”

The Trickster gazed at Sam fully. “I won’t say good luck, because luck hasn’t gotten you this far. Keep your faith.”

Sam nodded and looked forward. He pulled out the dagger and said a prayer.

He dove.

The river’s icy water took Sam’s breath away, forcing him to splash uncoordinatedly until he reached the other side, crawling out of the river with his sodden clothes dragging.

The crack in the rocks smelled like sulfur. Sam crawled inside, the dark dank heat making his skin crawl—not because it felt wrong, but because it felt like it should be normal, something that should feel comfortable. Maybe Dean was right, maybe he was becoming a demon.

Sam shrugged off the dark thoughts and clutched the knife a little tighter.

“Boy king,” something whispered through the darkness.

Sam was yanked off his feet by a tangled mesh of vines that crawled up his legs. With a hoarse yell, he was pulled deeper, the sharp ground tearing at his back. Hacking around his ankles, he managed to get to his feet again, ignoring the places where his jeans were singed from the contact.

“Where is Dean?” he snarled. There was soft laughter in response, echoing from the darkness.

“Why did you do this to me?” Jess stood in front of him, fire licking at her arms. “I loved you, and you killed me.”

“Jess,” Sam whispered.

“You killed me!” she screeched, and slammed into him. Sam cried out in pain as the fire burned his arms, until he slashed with the knife.

Jess collapsed in front of him, dissolving into an awful, crouching creature, flesh red and black. Sam kicked it aside, pulling himself together. Hell was made of tricks, that was all.

A wall rose up in front of Sam, made of sharp bones. Sam stowed away the knife and began climbing, ignoring the tearing at his hands. The belt of Hippolyte obviously wasn’t as powerful as the Trickster had believed.

“Sam?”

Sam nearly lost his grip, looking up the wall. “Dad?”

“Here, son.” A hand was reached down. Sam, expecting a trap, avoided it, pulling himself up and drawing the dagger again.

“Nice try,” he growled. The fake John reached out again, and Sam stabbed its chest.

John glanced down. “I guess what I told Dean was right. Have you come to rule Hell, Sam? I should have killed you earlier, but I knew how much it would hurt Dean.”

“You’re not my Dad. Get out of here,” Sam hissed.

John laughed, a bitter, dark sound. The kind of sound he used to make whenever November 2nd rolled around. “You want to kill me again?”

Sam stabbed once more, but his father didn’t dissolve into a demon.

“Dad?”

John shook his head. “I should have known you were the cause of Mary’s death. I just didn’t want to see it.”

Flames erupted around them. Sam pushed off from the wall, falling until he hit the hard ground. The fire followed him. Sam sprinted, but the ground began sinking beneath his feet. Sam struggled to wade through, a thick substance clinging to his legs, his arms, making everything feel . . . heavy . . . guilty . . . it was all his fault, he should just kill himself . . . it would make everything . . . better and—

Sam had the dagger halfway buried in between his ribs before he managed enough control to yank it back out.

He dragged himself out of the mire, falling to his knees when he finally reached a rocky edge.

“Master,” something hissed.

Sam lashed out with the dagger, slicing through the demon, turning it into smoke.

“Where is Dean?” he roared. “Show me Dean!”

And Dean appeared.

For a second, Sam paused. That second cost him, as Dean dove straight for him, taking Sam down to the rocky ground easily.

Blows rained down. Sam was unable to get leverage as the body on top of him continued to pummel him. There was a moment’s break, and Sam squinted up through the blood in his eyes to find it examining the belt on Sam’s waist. Sam made a sound of protest, but it was ripped off.

As the thing—demon, whatever it was—was distracted by the belt, he managed to get his hand into his bag, and grab his dagger.

Dean had been stabbed once, in a mugging gone wrong, during the Trickster’s days. But Sam had never done it himself.

Blood, red and real looking, leaked from Dean’s chest as he looked at Sam blankly, with something like betrayal.

He turned into smoke, leaving Sam choking on memories and pain.

And the belt was gone.

Sam retrieved his bag with his ticket out, keeping the dagger clutched in his hand.

Something in his gut pulled him through the dark. Sam picked his way over skeletons, still-writhing bodies, ignoring the screams in the dark.

A low growl filled the air. Two red eyes glowed in the darkness. Sam set himself, ready to finish it, finish everything.

“Sam.”

A voice he had only heard once in his life—that he could remember—said his name. Sam turned, slowly.

“Mom?” he whispered.

“Baby, what are you doing here? You need to leave. It’s all a trap.” His mother came close, cradling Sam’s face in her palm. Sam leaned into the touch, unable to stop himself.

“This is fake,” he whispered.

“No.” His mother’s voice was soothing. “I’ve been trapped down here. I’m going to save you.”

The growl behind him warned Sam too late. Sam’s shoulder was grabbed, teeth imbedding themselves into his flesh.

Like a worm at the end of a hook, Sam squirmed, unable to do anything until he was tossed aside. Sam pushed himself up with his good arm. He had dropped his knife.

The hellhound was huge, matted fur dripping blood. It’s teeth were stained with Sam’s blood.

“Done playing tricks?” Sam hissed.

It didn’t respond, choosing to lumber forward. Sam darted to the left, diving for his knife. By the time he managed to get it in his hand, the hellhound was on top of him, claw digging into Sam’s leg.

Sam slammed the knife upward, into the hellhound’s neck. Blood, black and viscous, poured out against Sam’s body, burning against his skin.

Scrambling out from underneath its carcass, Sam gave himself a few seconds to breathe, staring at the dead hellhound.

The stomach was moving, slightly. Sam grimaced, sliding the dagger through the flesh.

Black liquid and sodden pieces of paper fell out. Sam lifted them up, finding a name written in blood. The next had another name, and so did the next. He shoved them all into his bag.

When Sam found Dean’s, he clutched it close, unwilling to lose it again.

Hell was quiet, as Sam ate the apple. It melted away with a wail, and a fiery heat that Sam would remember for the rest of his life.

But he had done it. He had saved Dean.

Ruby still wasn’t answering Dean’s calls. Since he had left Sam, he had been staking out the motel room, waiting for the thing controlling him to arrive, or for Sam to leave. But there was no movement, in or out of the room, leaving Dean unable to decide what he should do. Go back in? Have things out with Sam now? Or leave for good?

Dean glanced over at the passenger’s seat—empty, no Sam.

“Screw it,” he muttered. Levering himself out of the car, he jogged up the street to get back to the motel. Maybe he was being a needy preteen girl about this, but he couldn’t leave Sam to face this deal by himself.

The door was unlocked.

Ice in his veins, Dean shoved open the door, bleating out Sam’s name.

Sam was on his bed, prone body arranged like he was in a casket. Dean snarled at the empty room.

“Whatever you are, show yourself,” he yelled.

Nothing happened, and Sam didn’t stir.

Pressing his fingers against Sam’s neck, Dean found a pulse. It was slow, slower than humanly possible.

“Sam,” Dean whispered. “Not like this, come on, wake up.”

Dean did cleansing rituals. Spouted off Latin, any thing he knew that might help.

Nothing.

Twenty-three minutes after Dean had entered the room, blood bloomed up over Sam’s heart.

In panic, Dean ripped off his brother’s shirt. Wounds opened up before his eyes, in the shape of an enormous animal bite of some kind. Dean pressed down against the welling blood, going for the suture kit with his other hand.

“You’re going to be fine, Sam,” he babbled. “I’ll fix you right up, don’t worry.”

His first stitch pulled the skin tight. As Dean prepared to make his next stitch, though, the thread dissolved, letting the wound gape yet again.

“Wha—“ Dean cursed under his breath, threading the needle and going back to the first stitches.

Again, it dissolved.

“Why are you doing this?” he snarled at the empty air. “What did Sam do?”

“More like, what did you do?”

Dean whirled, his empty hands raised in defense. He blinked. “You?”

“Yes, me. I’ll ask one more time before I lose my patience. What did you do?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t do anything. Are you the reason he’s like this?”

The . . . well, they had known him as the Trickster, but Dean didn’t know his actual name—stalked forward, leaning over Sam. Dean growled, “stay away from him,” but he was ignored.

“You should be waking up, kid,” the Trickster murmured. “Come on. You got the deal, now get out of there.”

“What deal?” Dean asked sharply. He was ignored again.

Sam drew in a breath.

“There you go.” The Trickster leaned back, satisfied.

“Sam?”

Unfocussed hazel eyes found his.

“Dean?” Sam rasped.

At Sam’s return to consciousness, Dean’s terror bled into rage. “What the hell is going on?”

“How apt of you to put it that way,” the Trickster said drily. “Sam, did you get it?”

Sam opened his fist, holding out a black piece of paper.

“Got it,” he murmured.

The Trickster nimbly picked it up, stretching it out.

Inscribed across it, was Dean’s name in red ink.

“Is that—“ Dean breathed.

The Trickster nodded. “Say thank you to your savior.” It burned up between his fingers, drifting down as ash.

“Sam,” Dean whispered.

“Well, I was referring to myself, but—“

Sam groaned. Dean worriedly looked back down at him. “Sam?”

“S’mthin’s . . . wrong,” he grunted.

“There are other magicks here,” the Trickster muttered. “Do you have any hex bags in the room?”

Dean shook his head. “No, all our things are in the Impala.”

Sam’s body arched, a choked cry caught between his teeth until he slumped back against the bed, limbs trembling uncontrollably. The Trickster began walking around the room, eyes scanning the surrounding furniture.

“Sam, what’s wrong?” Dean bent over him, running a hand over Sam’s burning forehead, his bloody wounds.

“Can’t . . . s’ry, D’n, I—,” Sam cut off, jaw trembling and eyes rolling back in his head.

“Don’t say that. Look at me, how do I fix this?”

The Trickster broke in, narrowing his eyes at Sam trembling on the bed. “What was the last thing you did with a witch, or some kind of demon?” he asked.

Dean blanched. “Ruby,” he whispered.

Sam’s wrist, limp against the bedspread, had the unassuming piece of leather encircling it. Dean ripped it off; Sam jerked before settling with a moan.

“That should do it,” the Trickster said. Dean ignored him, focusing on how the bleeding was slowing.

“Other . . . other names.” Sam gestured towards a bag that Dean hadn’t seen before. “Free the others.”

The Trickster whistled. “You have guts, kid.” He picked up the bag, lighting it on fire.

“Dean’s free?” Sam whispered. There was something awful and desperate in his voice.

Dean swore he saw the Trickster’s face soften. “Yeah, Sam. You did it.”

Sam sagged back against the bed, closing his eyes. “Good. That’s good.”

“I want some explanations,” Dean demanded.

The Trickster disappeared, only to pop up in front of him, making Dean swear and jump backwards. Intense eyes pinned him in place, despite the small stature of the guy.

“Let Sam rest in peace. He has done nothing but sacrifice himself for you.”

From the bed, Sam made a noise. “Don’t—don’t fight, Dean, don’t make him mad, he could—“

The Trickster held up a hand, and Sam fell silent. Dean hated the influence he had over his little brother, but if Dean was really out of his deal . . .

“We’re done, here.”

The Trickster disappeared.

Relief was making Sam’s entire body want to sag with relaxation, but Dean . . . the way Dean was looking at him . . . Sam closed his eyes to keep from having to see it.

“Go ahead,” he said softly.

“What?” Dean didn’t sound angry, yet. Sam opened his eyes, glancing at Dean before his cowardice took over and his gaze skittered back to the carpet, a neutral zone.

“You want to ask me,” Sam stated, “what’s happened.”

Dean sighed, a heavy sound. “Yeah. I do.”

Sam bit his lip, preparing to explain as much as he could.

“But not right now.”

Sam jerked his head up. “Really?”

Dean’s smile was wan, but it was a smile. “Dude. You are still bleeding, and a five year-old could take you down right now. I’m patching you up, you’re sleeping, and then we’ll talk.”

Dean approached, and Sam let himself relax, one muscle at a time. This was . . . familiar, if somehow distant in his memory.

“I’m sorry. For not telling you.”

“And I’m sorry for doubting you.” Dean was focused on Sam’s shoulder, the needle sliding through Sam’s skin.

“Do you . . . do you hate me?” Sam asked, awkwardly.

“Can’t ever hate you,” Dean said. “Even when I try.”

Sam wasn’t quite sure he knew what that meant, so he fell silent, grunting as Dean moved to stitching up his leg.

“How long?”

Sam made a noise of confusion.

“How long were you working for him?”

“Since Broward county,” Sam said.

Dean finished his stitching. “Get up, Sam.”

Sam obeyed, swaying a little. Did Dean want him to leave now?

“Now come here.”

Sam blinked at him. “What?”

Dean’s face was completely serious. “You will give me a friggin’ hug right now or so help me I will punch you in the face.”

Sam warily stepped closer to his brother. Dean’s arms wrapped around him, carefully avoiding his injured shoulder, and Sam dropped his head onto his brother’s shoulder, holding back a sob.

“It’s okay, Sammy. It’s okay. We’re good. We’re fine.”

It was only when Sam’s leg gave way that Dean settled him down against the bed. Sam, to his humiliation, had tears sliding down his cheeks. He waited for Dean’s response, but instead of making fun of him, Dean brushed his tears away with his thumb.

“Christo?” Sam joked shakily.

Dean pressed his lips into a sad smile. “I’m sorry, Sam. For what it’s worth, if it’s worth anything. And thank you.”

Sam felt another sob rip through him without his permission. “If that’s supposed to make me stop crying it’s not working,” he half-cried, half-laughed.

“It’s cool. You’re allowed to cry if you need stitches. New rule.” Dean sat down on the bed next to Sam. “Plus, you managed to save my soul from Hell. That gives you a free pass for at least a day.”

“Week.”

“Fine, a week.”

Sam’s swollen eyes were getting heavy, but he didn’t want to go to sleep, leave Dean behind, not now, when they were finally able to speak, finally be on the same page, finally be brothers again.

“Sammy, I’ll be here in the morning. Promise,” Dean said, and Sam realized he had spoken aloud.

He was Sammy again. Sam awkwardly twisted himself over onto his good side, clinging to Dean’s leg. Sam could forget the emptiness, the loneliness, the labors.

He was home.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/16262254126)


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